Absolute Zero
by Militsa M
Summary: CoS AU- Edward finds himself in over his head when he uncovers a Munich-based conspiracy to exploit the Gate. Multi-genre: action & imperiled lovers. Adventure/Horror/Romance - Edward Elric x Alfons Heiderich
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: _Kunst ist Scheisse_

"I can't draw it properly," Edward said, holding the pencil awkwardly in his left hand as he tried to render the design more accurately. "I want to get the curvature right—here," he said, biting his lip, a bit frustrated. "You know I can't draw detail for shit…here, you do it."

Alfons took the pencil and the pad of blank newsprint and studied the drawing. Yes, it was crap and would not do. He turned the page over and started afresh.

Edward described what he wanted. "Do a forty degree curve on the cap. I think that would work well, since we didn't have a lot of success with the fifty, but I think we were going in the right direction…also, maybe we should suggest that we go with a diameter of thirty centimeters, I think that proportion should make a nice model, small but we can scale it up if it works…let me see what you've got…"

Alfons Heiderich had never before shown Edward that he could draw portraits, but he had done a quick but serviceable sketch of Edward, catching, he thought, the light in his eyes and the correct curve of his nose, just so. The chin was tough, he always had trouble getting the right proportion with chins, but…Alfons kept peeking up at Edward while the other examined a blueprint. Edward was biting and sucking on his lower lip, eyes cast down at the drawing, and Alfons endeavored to capture the way his face looked. Intent. He didn't know exactly what he found so captivating, seeing Edward like this, but he couldn't stop looking. Finally, he was finished.

"Here."

Edward leaned forward and took the pad from him.

"You drew me?" He stared at the picture.

"What? You hate it." Alfons studied the drawing; his drawing skills—aside from rockets and plans—were pretty rusty, but he thought this was quite a good likeness.

"No…I just…I don't think anyone has ever drawn me before, you know?"

Edward seemed to turn a bit red, and turned his face away to start fussing with some papers that Alfons knew didn't need fussing with.

It wasn't until Alfons had gone out on his own that Ed took the time to really look at the picture he had drawn. Is that what I look like to him? he wondered, examing the pencil strokes that approximated his likeness. His eyes were half-closed, almost as if he were falling asleep, or just waking up. He held the pad at arm's length and narrowed his eyes. He felt strangely, pleasantly flattered that his roommate had drawn his picture like this, without asking.

He sat down with the pad on his lap and flipped the page over to a new sheet of newsprint. Taking up a pencil, he examined the tip, decided it was too dull, and took out his penknife to sharpen it. He felt like he was procrastinating. He wanted to draw Heiderich. It would be hard from memory, and even harder with his left hand. He had never been much for drawing, he had always focused on alchemy when he was younger, and when he had lost his natural hand, he had had to concentrate hard enough just to write with his left, let alone draw.

But, somehow, he felt an obligation, or a strong desire, to return the compliment.

Within moments, he realized it was stupid to try. If he could barely draw a simple rocket, how the hell was he going to draw a portrait, and from memory?

Memory. He painstakingly sketched the shape of the face, the eyes, the nose, the mouth. It took him ages to get each part even vaguely satisfactory. He concentrated hard on that face, every line of it, to try to get it right, to get it to look even remotely, remotely like the face he remembered.

He wanted to remember every part of it, every expression he made, how he looked when he spoke, when he smiled, when he was concentrating. It had been so long since he had seen him, he knew that he would look different now, but knew in his heart that…he was sure that…

He was drawing Al.

Immediately upon realizing this he tore the sheet from the pad and crumpled it up in his hand.

The University was like its own little city, its own little world, with microcosms within separated by all sorts of rules and castes and hierarchies that Ed could not begin to fathom. He had little interest in what was going on outside the physics department, although occasionally he would find himself pushing his way through a clot of students on campus, and if he paused to figure out what they were up to, it was usually a klatsch of communists watching someone standing beneath a flagpole issuing some rant or a group of feminists in ankle-high skirts demurely applauding some fiery female, likewise ranting. Once he even came across a bunch of graduate students demanding that they be paid a living wage for imparting their learning to their younger peers, asking in anguish whether it wasn't too much to ask that they earn enough to feed themselves one meal a day.

These distractions were of passing interest to Ed and to Alfons, but they might stand and observe them for a few moments before moving on toward the library or the science labs. On one particular early spring day, however, the warmth of the weather led them to seek to stay outdoors longer than usual, and they wormed their way into a crowd to observe the one of the oddest spectacles Ed had yet seen in this world.

Two young men were standing facing one another, tied together by their waists with a length of rope about two meters long. One was fully dressed and ostentatiously swinging a pocket watch in his hand. The other was stripped to his worn, long underwear, with dramatic rips at the shoulders and knees, barefoot. The latter appeared to be tugging at the rope, while the former stood with his feet apart, swinging his watch and affecting an arrogant manner.

"No more will I be your slave, bourgeois beast!" ranted the one in his underwear. "I am an artist!"

"Submit to my rules, or you risk losing my patronage!" was the other's riposte.

"I will break these bonds!" declared the Artist. They watched as the Artist deployed a large knife from somewhere within his drawers, and proceeded to saw away at the rope.

It took such a long time for the man to break the rope with the knife that Alfons and Edward glanced at one another a few times, secret smirks, before the sturdy hemp gave up the ghost.

The audience clapped politely.

"What the hell was that supposed to be?" Ed asked loudly, causing several people around him to hiss and cluck.

"Performance art," supplied a girl standing next to Alfons. She had dark hair cut close to her chin, a severe short fringe cut across her arched brows. She gave both of them a disapproving look. "It's very serious," she informed them. "It's not nice of you to mock it."

Alfons was quick to blush and apologize, while Edward crossed his arms and watched the two young men take bows and wave their arms with great affected humility.

"You two are not in the art department," observed the girl. "Let me guess—mathematicians."

"We're with the physics department, actually," said Alfons.

"Of course," she conceded, dipping her chin. "Even though you are scientists, you should open your minds to art. Our circle has a gallery showing on Saturday. You should come." She produced a piece of card from somewhere that was stamped with a sort of abstract picture in red and black ink, and included information on date time and place.

Alfons took the proferred card and pretended to study it with interest, but Ed could not suppress a snorting noise.

"I'll have work on display," said the girl, and now she suddenly seemed earnest. "We'd just love to get as many people we can to come…really, you might be surprised. Broaden your horizons!" She smiled, small red mouth revealing tiny, even teeth. Ed noticed for the first time that she was wearing a very, very large velvet flower pinned to her jacket…no, it was more like a cabbage, he thought, and as big as her head, now that he looked at it.

She must have taken the smile on his face for friendliness because she exclaimed, "Oh, good! My name is Maria, by the way…and here comes Otto, you must meet him, he's the star of our department…"

She had drawn a young man with an imploring wave of her hand, and he eagerly approached them, rubbing his hands together awkwardly. He was tall but stoop-shouldered—Ed always wondered at how anyone with the good fortune to be tall wouldn't stand to their full height—and wore a worn velvet jacket with an equally faded peach-colored shirt underneath, and a pair of the most dismal brown trousers Ed had ever seen on someone not lying in the gutter.

Otto seemed friendly and eager, but a bit scattered as he shook both their hands and made introductions.

"We need a crowd at the gallery on Saturday…need to impress the department and the governors, you know, so they don't cut us off entirely…we're lucky we still get to use some space at the University, but they are cutting the art college loose…as many people as we can get…please come!"

His dark eyes were very imploring and earnest, as was his greasy, floppy hair. Otto finished his speech with raised eyebrows, hoping for the best, no doubt, and Alfons, with all the goodness in his heart, could not say no.

"Sure, we'll come," he said. Ed rolled his eyes.

"Good!" Otto clapped Alfons on the back. "Come have a drink with us. It looks like the performance has finished." He turned to Maria. "I think they really outdid themselves this time, don't you?"

The critique continued as they set off. "I don't know," said Maria, adjusting the shoulder strap of the large leather bag that bounced at her hip. "I didn't think Ernst had his heart in it this time." She glanced at Edward and Alfons. "He wasn't convincingly bourgeois, I didn't think. Did you?"

Not wishing to admit that he didn't quite comprehend what class of people "bourgeois" was meant to encompass, Ed just shrugged. From what little he knew, it would seem that anyone who went to university was bourgeois. But since that didn't seem like the right thing to say, he said nothing.

Maria laughed and as they walked, she reached out and tugged gently on his ponytail. "And what's this? Such long hair on a boy! Is this normal where you come from, foreigner?"

Alfons chuckled at this, and, Ed noted with disapproval, was suddenly far too comfortable with the art students.

"What are we doing here?" Ed moaned quietly to Alfons as they sat squashed into a large oak booth in the dark beerhall, surrounded by about fifteen art students.

"They're sporting the beer," Alfons noted. "And we're broke. Besides, they're kind of …"

"Strange?" supplied Ed.

"I was going to say interesting," said Alfons.

The art students had quickly adopted the habit of addressing both Edward and Alfons as "Scientist" or, in Ed's case, sometimes "Foreigner."

Most of them smoked cigarettes that they rolled on the table before lighting them with matches. One of the crowd, a scowling dark-haired young fellow called "Wolf", had an interesting silver lighter that was passed around several times. Ed accepted a cigarette but ended up smoking it down too far, singeing the fingers of his white glove and forcing him to swear.

"Why are you wearing those gloves indoors anyway?" asked Maria, leaning across the table.

It didn't take Ed long to choose a lie from his repertoire. "Chemistry experiment, I burned my hands with acid…nasty scars," he said. Usually that led people to shut their mouths and look embarrassed for asking, but Maria's lips parted with interest.

"Ooh," she said, perking up. "Can I see?"

As if the wounds had suddenly become real, Ed crossed his arms and shoved his hands tightly into his armpits.

"No."

"Shy about it?" she asked challengingly.

"Not really, it's just that some people find it disturbing."

"Disturbing?" she said, eyes brightening. "Then you should let Oskar photograph them. His latest work—you'll see it at the gallery show—is all photographs of scars and burns and things." She tapped the ash off her cigarette onto the table. "It's fascinating stuff."

It obviously wasn't fascinating enough for her to press any further; as she had been doing all afternoon, she quickly turned back to Heiderich and began asking him questions, about his work, where he was from, what sort of music he liked. It finally dawned on Ed that she was flirting with him. Alfons seemed oblivious, answering her questions as straightforwardly as he could, not watching her hands fluttering close to his on the table, or at her throat as she nervously toyed with a jet bead necklace. Ed watched with mounting annoyance as she leaned closer and closer to Alfons, and their conversation contracted to encompass only the two of them.

Eventually he stopped making a fool of himself by trying to take part in the conversation and turned away in annoyance. He tried to find something in the room to stare at.

"Foreigner, you're interesting." It was Otto who finally decided to pay him attention. "I would like to draw you. May I? Sometime?" and he cocked his head to the side, looking innocent and imploring, what a favor Ed would be doing for him.

But Ed was suspicious. "Interesting how?" he asked, eyes narrowed.

"Your hair, the color of your eyes, so unusual" said Otto, and he bit his chapped lower lip. Alfons indicated that he had overheard by digging his sharp elbow into Ed's ribs.

A moment later when the others' eyes were off them Alfons leaned toward him, whispering smugly so that Ed wanted to punch him in the head: "Can't I talk to a girl without you getting all tied up in knots?"

"I don't," Ed said casually, pushing his empty beer glass toward the center of the table. "Stop flattering yourself."

They were crammed together on the narrow, worn setee in their flat. The pattern on the coarse fabric—a faded, melancholy maize-yellow brocade with some giant flowers embossed in its threads—was making its imprint on Ed's cheek as he lay it against the threadbare arm of the sofa. He was on his side, and Heiderich was behind him, in a similar position, but his long legs were bent and his knees were jammed not entirely comfortably behind his own.

"He wants to draw you because he thinks you're a freak." Occasionally Alfons teased Ed in a way that was shocking; he didn't seem capable of such sharpness.

"You know, you can be really fucking mean when you want to. "

Alfons smiled.

"Are you proud of that?"

"No," he said, smiling still.

"I can be interesting, can't I?" Ed asked, fishing for a compliment, less because he wanted one than to see if Alfons would respond as he liked. He didn't like to feel that he didn't have the upper hand, or at least that they were on equal footing.

"No, you're boring," said Alfons, pretending to stifle a yawn.

He knew that Alfons was waiting for him to say something banter-y in response to that last teasing remark but he kept silent. A hand fell against his side, casually, as if by accident, long-fingered and warm. It lingered there. Ed's favorite part of any day was when they lay on the sofa tangled together. Ed felt the fingertips dig gently into his back, then brush back and forth before climbing up to his neck and resting there. Then Alfons did that thing—kissed the back of his neck and then the edge of his ear—the thing that made him shudder from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Ed twisted his head back and parted his lips for a kiss.

In a moment Ed had moved onto his back and Alfons had shifted on top of him. Ed felt that feeling coming on, the thing that had confused him so thoroughly only weeks before, making him think he must be going out of his mind. Heiderich—awkward, cheerful, self-conscious Heiderich—made him feel things he had never even thought of before. Now his knee was pressing hard into his crotch, almost painfully so, and all Ed wanted to do was rip off his clothes and climb all over him. They breathed together, huffing and gasping as they scrambled to remove layers of clothing. Heiderich's silly suspenders got tangled in Ed's hair and they laughed almost manically as they struggled to release the hair that had gotten wound around a button.

"I swear I am going to forbid you to wear those stupid things, they're a menace," Ed grumbled, as Alfons finally slid them off his shoulders.

There was a procedure, on the sofa, necessitated by the limits imposed by space. First their shirts, then Ed would torment Alfons by ghosting his teeth across his nipples. Today, however, Alfons gave one deep gasp, then collapsed over Ed's shoulder, breathing hard. Ed felt his heart beating hard against his own chest.

"What's the matter?"

Alfons took a shallow breath and swallowed hard. "Nothing. I'm just…more tired than I thought I was."

"Do you want to stop?" Ed asked, tentatively. This had never happened before. He didn't think he himself could ever be too tired for something so exciting, he always managed to find the energy, in fact, it seemed to grow within him as things progressed, and any fatigue he felt would be easily forgotten.

But Alfons sighed and said yes, he was too tired, and drew himself up, clearing his throat and still breathing quick and shallow.

"I'll just lie next to you if that's all right," Alfons said, stretching out on his side again.

Ed said, "Sure," but he was still surprised by the sudden cease in the action. He wasn't sure what to do with himself.

"You can carry on by yourself, I don't mind," Alfons said drowsily. His eyes were already closing when Ed turned his head to look at his face. "Sorry, we shouldn't have started…"

"You started it by calling me boring," Ed reminded, turning away to face the room, while pulling Alfons's hand over his shoulder and lacing the fingers of his left hand with Alfons's right, so that their tangled fingers rested against Ed's chest.

"I was just joking," offered Alfons, gently enough to make Ed feel as if he were being condescended to.

"I'm not boring," Ed snapped. He thought of Maria's attentions toward Alfons and became even more annoyed. "Those art losers are boring. We're not actually going on Saturday, are we?"

"I think we should. We said we would. Just imagine if we had to turn out that kind of crowd to keep our projects going, wouldn't you want people to keep their word to come? Besides, they bought us beer."

While he considered himself fair-minded, Ed found that Alfons was even more so. And earnest.

"All right," Ed conceded. "For the beer."

Sometimes they fell asleep like that, on the sofa, and Ed would wake up either on the floor or cramped with pain for sleeping in his prosthetics in that static position, but still, he looked forward to it happening, again and agin.

This was hard, and lonely; he didn't like this. This was, in fact, one of the least favorite things he'd ever done. Alone, he sat on the steel examination table, bare except for a thin, cotton shift, open in the back. A lattice of chill spread red webs across the skin of his arms and he shivered in the cold, bare room, which seemed far bigger than it needed to be for what it held; a medicine cabinet, a white-painted counter against the wall. A ceramic basin half-filled with water sat on a small, square table, with a narrow ribbon of flannel draped across it.

Alfons Heiderich sat indian-style, his elbows on his knees. Sitting here practically naked, with his gangly legs and long arms exposed, he felt ungainly and weird. He waited, holding the book he had brought with him in his hand, unopened, too jittery to read. A clock on the wall ticked and ticked.

Eventually the doctor swanned into the room, smiling pink lips surrounded by a trim, blond beard, small steel-rimmed half-moon spectacles; a young man trying to look older. He looked at the file he held in his hand.

"Mister Heiderich!" he said, and held out his other. He shook vigorously, friendly. His hand was warm. Alfons began to relax. "Now let's have a look at you."

It was the x-ray that had caused young Herr Doktor Ries to lose some of that jolly demeanor. It wasn't until then that Alfons had real reason to worry. But Ries held the x-ray up to the window and frowned and blanched a little.

"You see these?" he said, pointing to two slightly darker gray spots that resided in the field of grey that represented his lungs. "This is the problem."

Ries made him sit on the examination table again and called a nurse in to take his temperature. As he sat with the glass thermometer under his tongue, Ries held his wrist to take his pulse. He suddenly felt fragile, being ministered to by two people in a cold room, naked except for a cotton shift, and without anyone to treat him as anything but a patient.

He was allowed to dress afterwards, then Ries returned, looking grim.

"I'd like to admit you to hospital as soon as possible; there's a treatment I'd like to try with you. Can you come back Tuesday? I'll make sure there's a bed for you."

Alfons felt his heart nearly skip a beat and shudder. Since when was this about being admitted to hospital? He couldn't adjust to the idea.

"What? What do you mean? For how long? I can take a day, two days, maybe…but I'm in the middle of a project …"

Ries stared at him. "You do realize that you're very ill? That's why you came here, isn't it?"

No, he had come here to be told that it wasn't anything serious, and not to worry, and to go back home and drink some fluids and get some rest, and then get on with his life.

"You've been spitting blood," said Ries. "You say it hurts when you breathe. You don't even appear to have an infection, so this is very serious."

"Oh." Alfons blinked. Blindsided. His mind felt blank.

"I'd like to try a therapy with you that may help improve your breathing and decrease the pain, at least for a while. There has been some success with the use of inhalant steam; it's been used to treat tuberculosis and I see no reason that it wouldn't work with you. The least we can do is try." Ries began to sound chirpy and upbeat again. As he spoke he hugged the clipboard he was holding to his chest. "I think we could see some improvement…you're so young, and quite strong, I think, to have lived with this for so many months. Whatever exposure caused this did its work very quickly, but perhaps we can arrest its progress, if just for a while."

"You keep saying 'just for a while'," Alfons said, zeroing in on that phrase. "That doesn't sound like a cure."

Ries cleared his throat. "It's not a _cure_, Mr. Heiderich. It's a palliative."

"A what?"

The doctor looked uncomfortable. "Something to make you feel better, maybe slow down the progress of the disease. To make it easier."

Alfons looked at the nurse. She had a white paper crown pinned to her hair, and a long, starchy-looking apron over her grey dress. When he caught her eyes, she looked away, busying herself with collecting and cleaning the thermometer. He felt a hand on his arm, warm against his chilled skin.

"I'm sorry, you've obviously been caught off guard." Ries spoke gently, keeping his hand on his arm. He suddenly recognized the gravity of the situation; the doctor's tone of voice, so gentle and indulgent, suggested terrible things were going to happen. "But the best place for you right now is in hospital. We can treat your pain and who knows, maybe see some improvement. Are your parents around? A friend? Someone to bring with you when you come back?"

Alfons closed his eyes and didn't reply. Before taking his leave, the doctor squeezed his arm again.

He took the longest possible route to the university. He was expected at the laboratory, and he wasn't going to let anyone down—the team, Edward, himself. He would pretend that nothing in particular had happened that morning, that he hadn't just learned what he had, that nothing had changed, even though everything was suddenly different. Now, holding this new and terrible knowledge, he found himself walking slowly to conserve his abbreviated stamina; now that he knew that it was all real and serious he saw himself as fragile. Suddenly, he wasn't like everyone else. Now he was set apart, special.

It was unsettling, certainly, but he also felt strangely euphoric. He also had the sense that this would wear off, that soon something heavier and frightening and more oppressive was going to descend upon him, but right now…this was interesting. In a way, he felt lighter. Vindicated. He had known, he realized. He should write to his mother.

His biggest worry was that Edward would notice something different about him, and how difficult it would be to tell him…and then, when he thought about it some more, he realized that his biggest worry was that Edward wouldn't notice at all, which made him laugh at himself.

"Here he is," said Kanter, the moment Alfons pushed open the door to the laboratory. "We were just talking about you."

"You were?" Alfons was forever amazed that he existed in spaces where he wasn't present. Where did that self-effacement come from? Edward could always be counted upon to roll his eyes at this knee-jerk modesty, and when Alfons glanced at him, there it was. Edward's mouth was twisted to the side as if he had been in mid-sentence and had had to stop himself. "What?"

"Nothing," said Edward, waving his hand.

"It's not nothing!" breathed Kanter, leaning forward onto the counter in front of him, littered with tools and pieces of metal. He had a pair of goggles on top of his head, and a protective glove on his hand—he'd been welding wires. He was the resident electrical engineer, an eager graduate student with enthusiasm to spare when he and Edward entered the realm of discouragement. "A couple of guys from a contracting company are coming this afternoon to recruit for a project team. I've heard that they're offering salaries, can you imagine, getting paid well? And they've got resources, we wouldn't have to requisition every wire and piece of scrap we use--"

Edward gave Alfons a meaningful look. A look meaning he had no interest in these visitors.

"Yeah, but we'd have to do what they want," said Alfons to Kanter. "What about our project?"

Kanter looked gultily at the jumble of wires on the worktable in front of him.

"I don't know about you guys, but I could sure use some real money," he said. "I have a wife and a baby on the way. Elric's just been ranting about scientific integrity and how he's not going to be bought off—"

"Hey, you don't need to justify yourself to me," said Alfons, shrugging out of his jacket. "I hope they take you, if that's what you want."

"We need you here," said Edward. "We don't have another electrical engineer who knows the project."

Kanter sighed and pulled the goggles back over his face, pretending to be intent on his wires. Alfons edged over to Edward and leaned over the design that he had been studying. Edward had made some barely legible marks and notes along the edges.

"This is so frustrating," said Edward, running a finger along the sketch of the rocket's cap. "The prototype worked in the first test but not on the second…Oberth's going to kill us for destroying the model when he gets back from Berlin, but should we really be wasting our time re-building it when it failed?"

Alfons felt tired; his brain wanted time to rest, he couldn't think. He leaned over the worktable, wanted to lay his chest and head down and sleep. He closed his eyes and sighed.

"What's the matter?" Edward asked. "Are you all right? Where've you been all morning, anyway?"

Alfons Heiderich made himself stand up, blinking to stay awake.

"I'm fine. So, when are these people supposed to turn up?"

Edward narrowed his eyes. "Why? Are you interested?"

"No…it's just that, if Kanter is, and probably some of the other guys are too, we should put on a good show for them, don't you think?"

"Whatever," said Edward, turning back to the plans. "It's none of my business."

By two o'clock a number of people had gathered in the laboratory, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the esteemed guests with lots of money to offer around. Kanter, Peters and Bergmann had all oiled their hair and put on new collars and neckties over lunch. They kept adjusting their labcoats to make sure they looked spiffy and asking each other if their new neckwear was straight and visible. There was much chattering over whether Oberth had already been in touch with these people—now referred to as "the company"—and whether he had recommended any of his lab team.

"You don't think they're interested in the wunderkinder over there, are you?" asked Peters, nervously straighening his collar again.

"No, of course they'd want more seasoned professionals," said Bergmann. "Those two don't even have their first degrees yet."

"I'm not sure degrees are what they're after," said Peters. "From what I've heard, they just want raw talent. I have a copy of my dissertation proposal…"

"I have mine too," said Kanter. "And my article….damn, where did I put that, I thought I had it right here…." He started frantically looking around for it.

Ed was minutes away from bolting from the laboratory completely, to leave the three of them to it. He and Heiderich were immersed in revising the plans for a new rocket prototype to replace the model they had destoyed in last week's test, but they could just as well do that at home without all these distractions and the preening grad students. Maybe, though, part of him was curious. Not that he wanted the job, but he was interested in seeing who these people were and what they wanted. It reminded him of his father and the Thule Society, something that he had been forced to stay away from, but that all the same intrigued him. He was thoroughly mistrustful of any group that attempted to use scientists for questionable means—and that went for anything, including alchemy--and he wondered how forward these recruiters were going to be with the hopefuls. He had no interest himself in becoming part of a project that had any goal beside his own. He was already uneasy about the fact that he had lost touch with his father, wondering where he had gone and in service of what organization. He had his suspicions, but he was afraid to indulge them. In this world, he didn't have the power to control much of anything, and he knew it.

Meanwhile, Heiderich was looking secretive himself, and a little wilted, as he sleepily went through the motions of reviewing statistical records of past rocket tests. He was off his game today, distracted, and Ed had an uneasy feeling about it. He watched him as closely as he could while trying to concentrate on his work, but the distractions of the day were getting the better of him too. He felt frustrated, and was practically relieved when the visitors finally arrived.

Two men, wearing well-tailored suits and almost identical mustaches—although one was tall and robust while the other was small and thin—entered the laboratory with their hats in their hands, amiably announced themselves as Strauss and Ostermann, and shook hands all around. Ed demurred, refusing to take notice or shake hands, taking the opportunity to appear as surly as possible to keep them from paying him any attention. He hunched over his diagrams, gripping a pencil in his left hand, only looking up occasionally to take in the repulsive fawning of his colleagues. Only Heiderich hung back, hovering over the worktable, also pretending to work.

However, despite his best efforts, the two men quickly extracted themselves from the graduate students and descended over the worktable where Ed and Alfons were sitting.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mister Elric, Mister Heiderich," said the big one—Ostermann—extending his hand first to Ed. Ed looked up, squinting at the light right behind the man's head. "We've heard a lot about Oberth's project team, and we were particularly interested in meeting the two of you."

Being rude hadn't helped so Ed tried plan B, which usually worked even better, although he hated to pull it out. If they'd heard of his working in this lab, they may have heard other things too. He stood up, trying to demonstrate that this was a difficult maneuver for him, and making a point of showing that his right arm was useless, he looked embarrassed, only partly faking, and dropped his pencil on the floor, exaggerating his handicaps and looked apologetic for wasting the gentlemen's valuable time for being such an inconvenient person.

They seemed undeterred. Ostermann withdrew his hand from Ed and offered it to Alfons instead, who shook it halfheartedly.

"Mister Elric," said Ostermann. He had a smooth voice, deep and confident, the voice of a man who was in charge and used to getting what he wanted. "Our benefactor—the leader of our company—is very interested in your talents. Yours too, Mister Heiderich. You've worked closely with Oberth, who is a visionary and a genius—we believe this!—so we know the two of you understand thinking outside the normal parameters of what is possible. We'd like to have you come work with us."

Not giving up on his chosen deterrence strategy, Ed leaned heavily against the worktable.

"Why haven't you asked Oberth, then?" he asked.

Strauss smiled. His mouth was a thin line, his skin taught and papery. He was much older than Ostermann. "We have invited Oberth. He prefers to work on his own, and he declined. Men like him are not really team players. But you two are less experienced; our company would be an excellent opportunity for you. We're offering a good salary. You could send money to your family, save up for university." Here he looked pointedly at Heiderich.

"What are you working on?" asked Heiderich, appearing excited. "Is it rocketry?"

"Not exactly," said Strauss. "It's even more ambitious, something entirely new that combines physics, engineering, chemistry…just like your project, but on a bigger scale, with bigger ramifications, bigger stakes, bigger funding, bigger everything. We believe in this project, and our benefactor has unlimited resources. We will see it through to success. It will change the world. You could be part of that."

"Could you be a little more specific?" Ed said impatiently.

"No," said Ostermann, and his eyes twinkled like he was trying to lure a couple of kids with promises of candy. "But I can assure you, this project is even more important than the one you're working on—it goes far beyond what you've ever imagined."

"I doubt it," Ed said drily. At that, Ostermann and Strauss exchanged a glance. Suddenly, Strauss was digging in the pocket of his waistcoat, pulled out a small calling card, and held it out to Ed.

"We know who your father is, which is why we came looking for you. We think that you—and he—could add a lot to our work. If you could convince him…"

"So, that's what you're after," said Ed, looking at the card still being held forth by Strauss. "You want me to get my father to work for you."

"We'd contact him ourselves, though we haven't been able to track him down," said Ostermann.

"Well tell me if you find him, because I don't know where he is either," Ed said, more bitterly than he intended to. He had meant to sound cool, but as he said it, his eyes began to burn and he had to look down at the table. He didn't want to look up again, to see what he knew was another meaningful look between Ostermann and Strauss. He had sounded pathetic just then, he knew. Well, he hoped he had made a bad enough impression on the men that they would leave him alone.

"Mister Elric," came Ostermann's voice, and when he looked up, the man had an almost pleading expression on his face. "It's not just your father we wanted. We've heard about your genius in chemistry, and we'd like to have you join us. And Mister Heiderich too, for your expertise in physics. Please think about coming to see us. Now take the card."

Ed gave in and reached for the card. It said nothing but "J. Strauss" and a Munich address in the business district.

They withdrew, thanking everyone for their time, and leaving three very disappointed graduate students in their wake.

At their flat, later that evening, Ed took the card out of his pocket and tossed it on the kitchen table, home to piles of discarded papers, books, spilled ink and dirty plates. He wouldn't call them; the fact that they were after Hohenheim sealed the deal. He wanted nothing to do with it.

"But aren't you curious? About their project, I mean," said Alfons, chewing on a slice of burnt toast. Toast and beans again for supper. Ed's stomach growled at the very sight of the subsistence rations. Working for the mystery project could mean plenty of money, they could eat properly…

"Well, sure, yeah, but there's no way I can trust them. Besides, what we're doing is important. Who knows what they're really up to? We don't have time for that."

"No…we don't." Alfons put down his toast and took a swig of cold tea. He started into the gaslamp flickering on the table. He seemed distracted again. And here they had this fascinating, mysterious topic to speculate on, and Alfons was strangely quiet. He cleared his throat and looked at Ed. His eyes appeared unusually large and shiny. In the dim light, their color was indeterminate, and Ed found himself looking at his brother for a moment. He had to blink to make this illusion pass.

"I have to tell you something."

"All right." Ed had already cleared his plate and pushed it forward. "What is it?"

Heiderich looked down at his plate. His voice was shaking as he began to speak. "I went to the hospital today, that's where I was this morning. I went for—you know, my chest, you know how I cough a lot and lose breath, and I've been getting tired…you know, I've had two chest infections in the past year…so I kept on worrying about it…so I went to see a specialist."

Ed just listened. He wasn't sure what he expected to hear. He hadn't really thought much about those frequent illnesses, he'd only assumed Heiderich's constitution wasn't as strong as it could be, he had never imagined anything more, even during the times when he'd nursed him a bit. He remembered thinking that Heiderich seemed pretty damned sick for a few days once, which made him feel instantly guilty that he hadn't given it more thought. He'd just been happy to see him get better. But was there something he'd missed?

"So…what did he say?" Ed prompted hesitantly, because Heiderich had come to a stop, still looking down at his plate.

Heiderich shook his head, then looked up. He had a small smile on his face. "Well, he said I need to look after myself, take it easy...but it's nothing that serious, though, I should be all right. He said maybe I'm getting too much exposure to that rocket fuel and other chemicals, so I should ease off, you know? Be more careful."

Ed nodded, entirely relieved. He didn't realize that he had been holding his breath, and exhaled, heart pounding in his head. "Yeah, of course. We'll make sure you don't get exposure, take it easy. So, that's good news, then, right?" He gave what he hoped was a hopeful smile.

"I suppose," said Heiderich. The small tight-lipped smile he offered in return was not entirely reassuring, but Ed was determined to take this agreement at face value, and tried to enjoy the rest of his supper.

The scientists found themselves at a rambling art gallery one Saturday evening in April, staring at sculptures, collages and paintings that defied all their expectations. Ed acknowledged how utterly simple he was when it came to art: he only knew the "regular" stuff: pictures and sculptures that looked like the things they were supposed to be. He acknowledged that some of these things vaguely approximated the things they purported to be about-a portrait of a woman, for example, with everything sketchy and out of proportion-but some of the more abstract things mystified him, like the bits of wire hanging overhead with twisted, burnt paper suspended from strings spinning around them idly in the mostly-still air.

"Mobile sculpture," Alfons supplied helpfully.

"How do you know that?" Ed asked, impressed.

"It says, here." Alfons extended a slender finger toward the explanatory miniature rectangle.

"Ah," Edward said, trying to sound serious.

"These are...interesting," said Alfons, stopping to pay homage to a collection of bright paintings depicting women with bare breasts lolling about with sedate tigers.

"There are some who cling to the Fauvists," scoffed the approaching Otto. "This is absolutely retrogressive and incorrect. You two shouldn't even be looking at these abominations. Come, see my work."

"It's gouache, gouache!" he said, waving his hands in excitement. "My new favorite medium. So versatile," he said, and he pointed at some strokes and swirls in the brightly colored form, this is supposed to be a person thought Ed, knowing that he was squinting and looking both doubtful and ignorant.

After Otto moved away Alfons gave him a look-eyebrows raised-and they both doubled over in silent laughter.

"It's gouache, gouache!" said Alfons, waving his arms.

"What the holy hell is gwastsch?" Ed wondered, staring at the picture.

"It sounds like some kind of tropical fruit," Alfons suggested. "Maybe the color is derived from the flesh of the fruit."

"Or even the seeds," Ed speculated, his eye caught particularly by the bright shades of orange in the painting. He pinched his chin between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand as he examined the visual properties of the paint. They both leaned in to examine it more closely. Ed sniffed. "It has a chalky smell, I think there may be magnesium in it."

Alfons leaned even closer to the painting, nearly touching it with the tip of his nose and inhaled. That was stupid: it threatened to make him cough so he had to stop and take a breath, his eyes watered and his throat burned, while Ed stared at him with a concerned expression. Alfons had to wave him away and gasp out, I'm fine I'm fine before he raised his hand and scratched ever so gently at the picture's surface with the tip of his finger, obtaining a sliver of orange paint under his fingernail. He pulled away and presented his fingernail to Ed for examination.

Ed frowned. "It's too small a sample." They both looked back at the picture.

"It's weird because the paint seems so much thicker in those two areas," Ed said, trying to vocalize what was bothering him. "And then there are the lines that seem to be absorbed into that canvas, while those parts just sit there..."

"I know." Alfons studied the picture some more. It was Ed who stepped forward this time, and Alfons watched with the faint hope that they could move on from this piece of art, his interest in the magnesium-like scent waning. Then he saw Edward lean forward, and quickly his little tongue flicked out and he-

"God in Heaven did you just LICK my painting?" screamed Otto, descending upon them. They should have known he would be watching for their reactions to his work. Otto stood, staring at them with his mouth open. People in the immediate vicinity stopped to watch, forming a semi-circle around them. Ed reddened and spluttered, at a loss at how to explain.

"I like the texture," said Alfons brightly.

Otto shook his head slowly, then broke into a wide smile, brown, broken teeth everywhere. "I am honored that you have licked my painting. The highest compliment for an artist." He bowed theatrically, but all Ed could do was blush.

Maria's high pitched laugh hovered over the crowd.

The crowd around them dispersed, and Ed and Alfons stood facing each other, both supressing laughter. After a moment they could take it no longer: simultaneously they burst out in guffaws.

"Fuck this," said Ed. "There's no point in pretending that we're enjoying this shit. Let's get out of here."

Alfons followed as Ed began to weave his way through the gallery. They were waylaid twice by large clusters of people gathered in front of displays, but the crowds were too thick to view the work. Ed's curiosity about the artwork had faded, but Alfons-perhaps because he was tall enough to peer over people's heads-still tried to catch of glimpse of some of the attractions as they passed by.

When they reached the front entrance of the gallery, they were annoyed to find yet another large crowd, this time watching the same performance they had seen at the University a few days before; the two guys tied together by ropes, the bourgeois patron, the untamed artist, blah blah.

Ed rolled his eyes at Alfons. "I'm not watching this again," he said.

"We can't walk right through it!" Alfons protested, still clinging to his sense of propriety.

Maria suddenly grabbed each of their shoulders.

"You can't leave yet!" she said. "The party hasn't even started!"

Ed stopped and scoped the large room. The windows and any other doors were shielded from view by the many interior walls put up for displaying the art. The place was like a maze.

"Trapped," Alfons conceded. Edward crossed his arms and slammed his back into a wall, leaned into it and impatiently blew a lock of hair out of his eyes.

"Dammit," said Ed.

They loitered there for a while, making each other laugh by recounting the scene by the picture Ed had licked; there was enough mileage there for a few rounds of repetition, and they were enjoying having a joke between themselves while completely locked out of the rest of the culture of the place. They were an island of sanity in a sea of art freaks.

They hadn't been expecting to hear music, but suddenly a piano, an accordion, a violin, a clarinet began to play. Curious, they left their corner and followed the sound: people were dancing in the atrium. The sun had just gone down and a chandelier replete with dripping candles lit the space.

Someone ran up to them. Maria again.

"Dance with me!" she said, holding out her hands. They both stood there, embarrassed, both staring at the outstretched hands. "Come on, Heiderich, you must!" she insisted. She was wearing black, lacey fingerless gloves, tattered and full of holes. They matched her worn black shawl, which she had tucked into the belt of her grey skirt. Though her clothes looked shabby and her hair was cut short and unevenly, she still looked bright and young and pretty--and hopeful. Alfons finally caved to her invitation. He tossed Edward an aplogetic glance, eyebrows raised, amused helplessness. Ed rolled his eyes and moved to the edge of the room, making way for the increasing number of couples drawn to the makeshift dancefloor.

Dancing, thought Edward, was one of those things that he would never do. But there was Heiderich, swanning around with Maria, tall and graceful, and Ed was a bit jealous. It would be nice, wouldn't it, to be tall and slender and have four limbs, wouldn't it? And it might be nice to dance with a girl now and then, just for the hell of it. Wouldn't it.

From what he could tell, Alfons Heiderich just might have danced with a girl or two before. He wasn't brilliant or anything, but he wasn't making an ass of himself either, Ed noticed, not entirely approvingly. Maria had her head thrown back and she was smiling and seemed to be enjoying herself. Alfons gave Ed another raised-eyebrow look when their eyes met again, but this time Ed didn't acknowledge it.

The song went on a long time, and the dancefloor became more crowded, as Ed found himself feeling increasingly irritated. When the musicians finally stopped, everyone applauded and Ed readied himself to receive Heiderich from the crowd. Here he came, wending through the couples gathered, readying to start up as the next song began. Maria was behind him, and Ed realized that they were holding hands.

He was not quite prepared for the feeling that this elicited. His entire head became hot in an instant and his stomach felt as if held inside a tight fist. Jealousy? He hated himself for even thinking it. And yet, as Heiderich approached his first thought was that he was going to deck him one. Maria was laughing and saying something as they drew close.

"I hope you don't mind," she said, and looking suspiciously radiant she leaned toward Edward and spoke in his ear as the music swelled around them. "But I'm going to steal him for a bit longer. He's a marvelous dancer!"

Ed's mouth was dry. He croaked out something that tried to be "all right" but he realized that all that came out was just some sort of distorted sound. Ed looked at Alfons then, and Alfons reddened.

"We should be going, though," Alfons said. "It's getting late."

"Late for what?" demanded Maria. "Do you have someplace else to be?" She turned toward the dancefloor and pulled at his arm. "Come on, one more song." Then she turned back to Ed. "And you-don't be such a wallflower! Find someone to dance with, there are girls standing around all over the place!"

Alfons shrugged as if helpless and allowed himself to be pulled away, giving Ed an imploring look that Ed wasn't buying for a second. Feeling helpless himself he continued to stand where he was, but looking around he began to notice that yes, there were young women, and some men, standing all around the edges of the rotunda, watching the dancefloor, talking to each other in small groups, or even standing alone as if waiting to be asked to dance. He noticed that some of the girls were looking at him; a group of three caught his eyes, then immediately smashed together in a huddle, to discuss him, he thought in his paranoia.

He felt himself weird and out of place but this was nothing new. He was a foreigner, more foreign than they could possibly know.

Feeling almost panicked, he sought to escape from the rotunda. There were several archways, most of them, he knew, leading to the galleries. He took the nearest one, which led, predictably, right back to the galleries that held the students' work. He saw familiar faces loitering around the artworks, and wanted more than anything to avoid being pinned down by Otto or any of his friends.

At the end of the gallery there was a quiet corner that turned into a narrow hallway that was obviously not for public use. Dusty, dark and quiet, doors with peeling paint and an unpolished floor. There wouldn't be anyone here. Ed leaned against a wall and slid down, happy to be off his feet. He pulled his knee up to his chin. He wouldn't cry, he didn't think, but his cheeks and eyes burned for the first time in ages. He smashed a fist against his shin.

Dammit, dammit.

Maria was wearing him out, damn hard. She held his hands tightly, kept one of his held close to her chest, hard, she was strong for such a slender girl. The music was upbeat, requiring quite a lot of moving around, and Alfons could feel himself becoming fatigued. The dancing crowd, mostly students, were full of energy and some kind of liquor that was being passed around the edges of the dancefloor. Maria pulled him toward the edges more than once or twice to grab a bottle and take a swig, offering it to him afterwards, but he always demurred.

How unsanitary, he thought, in his mother's voice.

When he looked down at Maria he could see her fringe beginning to get damp and stick to her face; she was getting sweaty but seeming to enjoy it. He on the other hand was getting increasingly agitated, although of course he kept smiling at her whenever she caught his eyes. As they moved around the dancefloor he kept searching for Edward, but he had long since lost sight of him.

Not that he was in any way required to chaperon Edward all evening. After all, they had come to a party and now he was dancing, with a girl. And that was something that he was supposed to be doing, wasn't it? Still, it didn't feel quite right. He liked Maria all right, and she seemed to be liking him, for whatever reason, and he was flattered. For a moment he condescended to pity Edward; too short and clumsy to dance with a girl, and Alfons knew he wouldn't want anyone to hold his hand. Then he felt guilty for that, too.

But there was more. Even in his inexperience he was aware of the fact that Maria was getting drunk, that she was furthermore dizzy with dancing, and that he could easily take her off somewhere and kiss her in some corner, maybe feel her breasts, if he wanted. But the fact was, as nice as Maria was, it was Edward he wanted to be groping in a corner.

Yet something in him was saying stay stay, keep dancing with this girl. Remember what happened yesterday? Remember that there may not be many more-any more-chances for you to dance with inebriated pretty art students on an April evening...

A song must have ended, because they were suddenly standing still, and Maria was looking up at him, her eyes half-open and her mouth quirked to the side.

"I think I must have worn you out," she said, her speech already a little slurred. "You look like you've had enough. Care to take a break?"

He nodded gratefully, noticing that his throat was so dry that he could hardly swallow. She was still holding his wrist as she dragged him to the edge of the rotunda. He could see her looking around for one of those passing bottles of liquor.

"Excuse me," Alfons finally managed to get out. "But I think I need the washroom."

At that moment Maria's eyes must have locked onto her target because she began to list eastward, arm outstretched.

"All right then, meet you back here?" she said, moving away.

He didn't bother to say anything, just took the nearest archway and found himself in a gallery now nearly clear of patrons. Everyone else seemed to have gravitated toward the party in the rotunda at this point. He glanced back at the milling crowd and despaired of finding Edward any time soon.

He didn't really need the toilet. He needed...Edward. Alfons began to walk quickly through the gallery, while his legs began to turn to jelly from all that dancing. His heart beat quickly and he pressed a hand to his chest in a futile effort to still it. Was that fatigue, or nerves? Where the fuck was Edward? Was he angry with him? Did he leave entirely, abandon him here? Had he been wrong to dance so long with Maria? He was confused as to why that made him feel so bad. Outside their flat, it was as if they didn't, and couldn't exist, and that made him feel worse.

"Sorry!" He heard the voice before he even felt his body collide with another. Shocked and slightly winded from the impact, he stepped back, now with both hands over his chest. "Ah, it's you, scientist," said Otto, peering at him over the tops of the lenses of his tiny spectacles. "I hope you and your accomplice haven't eaten up all the artwork while everyone's been at the dancing?"

Was he joking? Alfons tried to smile, feeling nervous, he put his hand behind his neck and squeezed himself into focus. "Oh, ha, no...sorry about that, before...we were just-"

Otto clamped a friendly hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry about it. It was shocking but everyone's talking about it, it was really very funny, ha ha a bit of performance art, we can say. No harm done." Otto removed his hand, crossed his arms and assumed a concerned expression. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Alfons said quickly. "I'm just...looking for Edward. Have you seen him?"

"Sorry, I haven't," said Otto. "Good luck finding him," he added, before hurrying off toward the rotunda.

Alfons stood a moment longer before deciding to continue down this particular gallery.

Twice in the past twenty minutes or so-Ed now sat with his battered second-hand pocket watch, a gift from Hohenheim, open in his right hand, which lay slack-fingered on the floor beside him as he sat, knee still to his chest, other leg outstretched, watching the minutes tick by-twice in the past twenty, no, twenty-one minutes did someone poke their head down this murky corridor, looking for someone. Some woman ran past, gave him a disapproving look, and took off. Then some drunk guy had turned up and said, "Johannes?" about seventeen times, squinting at Ed through narrowed eyes, trying to make sense of the dim light, refusing for some reason to come any closer. "Johannes? Johannes? Johannes?"

Oh for fuck's sake, Ed thought. He finally barked, "I'm not fucking Johannes. Get out of here." The guy blinked again and left.

Leaving Ed to wonder, when was Heiderich going to come down here, bleating Edward Edward Edward?

He closed the watch with a snap and pushed it into the pocket of his waistcoat. His skin prickled: footsteps again. Long stride, a little tentative, like he didn't want to make too much noise wherever he went. It pleased him, in a funny little way, that Alfons was a bit of a gentleman like that. It pleased him too to note that there was only one set of footsteps.

From here, the music from the rotunda could still be heard, although it was muted and sounded far away. The piano, violin, accordion, and the sweetish sound of a clarinet, like a woman's voice, floated above it all.

Then he heard his favorite voice speak: "There you are." Heiderich turned the corner. He came over, looked down, offered his hand to pull Edward up.

"What are you doing all the way over here?" Alfons asked. "I thought I'd never find you. I don't know what made me look over here...I thought you might have left."

"I should have," Edward said, without thinking. He narrowed his eyes, embarrassed. "Never mind. I hope you had a good time dancing with Maria."

"It was all right," Alfons said. It was his turn to be embarrassed. The yellow gaslight shooting down the dim corridor lit one side of Edward's face while the other was in almost darkness. In this non-light, Edward's lips parted slightly as he looked up at him.

They smashed together so quickly, Ed didn't even know what was happening. He had just felt a rush, an urgency to push himself into Alfons, and had him up against the wall in the moment it took for Alfons to press his mouth onto his. Heiderich kissed his mouth then urgently kissed his cheek, then his neck, and lingered there to suck the skin beneath Ed's collar. Immediately Ed felt a rush of adrenaline that almost panicked him.

"We're in public!" Ed managed to rasp into Heiderich's ear. "We're in public..." he repeated. "What if-"

"I don't give a damn. Do you?" Alfons said into his ear, breath hot and sending immense shivers through Ed's body, he didn't care to respond. No, he didn't really give a damn. No he did not.

Ed's left hand fumbled to get itself close to Heiderich's skin, pushing up beneath his shirt and onto his chest, resting his palm on Heiderich's nipple he pressed and rubbed until Heiderich gasped, throwing his head back so hard it made an audible bump on the wall behind him. Ed pushed up Heiderich's shirt and-thinking even as he did it, that he had nearly done the same to Otto's painting a couple of hours before-pressed his mouth to his nipple and sucked. Alfons made a sound that approximated a chirp, so that Ed had to stop for a moment, catch his breath and laugh. Alfons's hands came behind Ed's head and clutched at his hair, his fingertips digging into his scalp.

"If you stop now," he breathed, "I'll kill you."

Their mouths found eachother's again and Ed found himself nearly lost in the moment. In moments like these he forgot everything: where he was, who he was, Al, the Gate, everything, everything telescoped into this, being with Alfons.

The music played on behind them. Maybe footsteps approached and scampered away. It didn't matter, when Alfons Heiderich began to unbutton his waistcoat and then his shirt, and to kiss the bottom of his throat. Edward found himself making those silly chirping sounds too, and gasping, and otherwise making a fool of himself, and he did not care. He didn't care if anyone found them there, with their hands on each other and their shirts open, and he cared even less when he finally plucked up the nerve to unbutton Heiderich's flies, and even less than that when Heiderich did the same, when that slender, long-fingered hand made its way down and grabbed him there, fumblingly, but gently, as Alfons Heiderich tended to do things.

They kissed, a lot. Ed liked the kissing. They kissed drunkenly, tentatively, aggressively, gently, sometimes like experimenting schoolboys, sometimes like they'd been doing it all their lives and not just a few weeks...on their sofa, on the bed, in the kitchen, in the washroom, but never, ever before in a public place. But they had never gone from zero to a hundred this quickly either: this was something else, like energy that had finally been set free. Ed likened it to alchemic energy, pent up and undisclosed, waiting to be released on the right array. This here, this was the right array.

The best night he had had since he had come to this forsaken world. Ed was ecstastic when they had both come together, their hands on each other, Ed's head on Heiderich's shoulder, Heiderich against the wall, holding the both of them up. Ed held up his left hand, laced the fingers through Heiderich's right, pressed their hands against the wall behind Heiderich's shoulder.

Another kiss.

"Let's get out of here," Ed said.

They straightened themselves up as best they could, tucking in their shirts and straightening their collars, Ed fumbling to smooth his hair. Making their way back through the galleries, they tried to avoid catching the eye of anyone else who might try to make them stay. Ed had firmly established that they had had enough. What was more, he could see that Alfons was tired, even if he wouldn't say so. Pushing through the knot of people in the rotunda, they had the twenty-foot high doors to the outside within their sights when Ed felt a hand on his shoulder. For a fleeting moment he considering ignoring it and running, but the hand pressed down and forced him to stop.

He turned to see Hermann Oberth, his erstwhile mentor and the former head of the rocketry project.

"I've been looking everywhere for you two. Your landlady said you'd be here." It was unlike him to seem so excitable. Oberth was panting as if he had run there. The fact that he had been frantically looking for them was surprising-and serious.

"I heard that Ostermann and Strauss have been trying to recruit you, and I'm telling you, you have to stay away from those two, and their organization-"

Ed held up his hand. "Don't worry. We're not interested. We already told them no."

Oberth glanced at Alfons, who nodded in assent.

"We wouldn't leave your team," Alfons said earnestly.

Oberth rolled his eyes. "That's not what I'm worried about. Just promise me, whatever you do, don't go to them."

Now Ed's interest was piqued. True to his nature, tell him not to do something, and suddenly it becomes mighty appealing.

"Why?" he asked.

Oberth stepped between Ed and Alfons, and grabbed each of their elbows with his hands, pulling them forward.

"Let's go have a drink. I'll tell you what I know."

**_Continued in next chapter_**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Ignorance is Bliss

Oberth was a tall man close to thirty, thin and naturally laconic. He was not excitable, so his haste and anxiety to get them out of the gallery alarmed Alfons. He walked quickly with his long strides, they followed, Edward practically jogging to keep up. Oberth didn't even look back to see if they were following as he made a bee-line to a restaurant several blocks down Ludwigstrasse toward the Hofgarten. Ensconced in a high-backed oak banquette, Oberth distractedly ordered some food without asking them what they wanted, and leaned toward them across the table, his voice low

"Strauss and Ostermann, you saw them yesterday, no?" They both nodded. "They work for a secret organization. Nobody knows for sure who their boss is, but there are rumors."

"Like what?" Alfons asked, intrigued. It was exciting to be even peripherally associated with something so mysterious.

Oberth drew back, beginning to relax a bit. "A cabal of insurgents who want to overthrow this government…a secret arm of the German government itself…the Russians or the Americans, depending on who you ask, trying to steal the brightest of German minds…an international league of elite scientists. Freemasons. Nobody I've spoken to really knows, or isn't admitting it."

After digesting this non-information for a moment, Edward said, "What did they say when they asked you to join them?"

Oberth waved his hand. "They were maddeningly vague, promised me this and that…unlimited resources to develop my projects, a laboratory of my own…but they were evasive about their purpose. I don't suppose you got any farther than I did?"

Edward shook his head. "They weren't even that interested in me," he said. "They were after my father."

Oberth sucked in his cheeks. "Hmm," he said. "That's interesting. Considering your father is known for being an expert in an arcane branch of science history."

"Yeah, well." Edward looked down at the table. Mentions of Hohenheim, ever since he had gone missing, were unexpectedly upsetting, it seemed.

"But listen." Oberth leaned forward again. "I've heard things…they've been looking for uranium, plutonium, unstable elements. I know they've approached chemists and geologists…they don't really want to build rockets for travel; they're developing weaponry, that's what I believe. That's why I wouldn't touch their organization. Not for all the money…and they _own_ what you develop, boys, don't forget that. Take a job like that, and your overlords own _you_. That's not what being a scientist is about." He rapped his hand on the table for emphasis. His tone had taken on the feel of a lecture. Alfons looked at Edward. He didn't know what to think of all this himself. He thought of the graduate students back at the lab, how disappointed they had felt at being cut by Ostermann and Strauss. He fully intended to tell them that they weren't missing out on anything.

"We already told you," said Edward. "We have no intention of taking them up on their offer. If it helps any, I got a similar feeling…I could tell they were up to something. Promising things we never dreamed of. What did they take us for, kids?"

Alfons felt himself blush. He had always looked up to Oberth so much. The man was brilliant, a real genius, even if the University didn't recognize that. An independent thinker, innovative, everything he aspired to be. Barely thirty years old and Oberth was already making a name for himself in the field. Alfons wondered for a moment where he would be when he was thirty, and then he remembered: he wouldn't be anywhere. He felt his spirits sag, and suddenly he felt his exhaustion again, and a driving desire to go home and go to sleep for a long, long time.

He must have looked as weary as he felt because Edward was now asking him if he needed to go home, and was he all right, glancing at him with concern. But the food had just arrived at the table, and since Oberth was clearly sporting, they just had to eat. Ed tucked into his plate with his usual enthusiasm, as did Oberth, while Alfons struggled to chew and swallow. His throat felt sore, his body too tired to digest food. Still, he knew he needed the nourishment.

"I just wanted to make sure you boys don't make a grave mistake. And that's what it would be, going to work for them."

"Yes, we understand, thank you," Alfons said, pushing his plate away. He had managed to finish nearly everything. Edward used his bread to scoop the remnants of potatoes and gravy off his plate.

"I know I've been away a lot, not there to give you much oversight anymore…but when I heard those two were going to be coming to the lab, I got worried…"

"You rushed all the way here from Heidelberg?" Alfons asked, flattered at his concern.

Oberth nodded, pressing the cloth napkin to his mouth. "You two know a lot that I wouldn't want to see fall into the wrong hands. Of course."

Edward nodded. "We get it."

"Good!" Oberth tossed his napkin onto the table. "Better to be a struggling scientist, than someone's lapdog."

Alfons had stopped caring about this conversation. He had never been seduced by the idea to begin with. He liked the university, wanted to matriculate soon…and none of this mattered anyway. His throat ached. He leaned against the wall to his right and closed his eyes.

"Looks like Heiderich wants to call it a night," he heard Oberth say.

"Yeah, he was dancing with a girl for hours," Edward said, but under the table, Edward's hand had reached across the small space between them on the bench, and wandered to squeeze his leg, just above the knee. "You can't keep Heiderich away from the ladies."

"I never knew that about him," said Oberth. "Good for him."

"Yeah," said Edward, giving Alfons's leg another squeeze. "Good for him."

Before taking his leave in front of the restaurant, Oberth shook both their hands.

"Listen…some things might happen, at the lab, over the next few days, and I may be going back to Transylvania. I just want to make it clear that it has nothing to do with you." Before they could respond, he bowed his head quickly and then walked swiftly away.

Edward looked up at Alfons with raised eyebrows. "That doesn't sound good," he said, expelling a puff of air.

"No, it doesn't," Alfons agreed. The looked down the street but Oberth had already disappeared from view.

The next morning Edward woke up to find Alfons already out of the bed. It was early and it was Sunday, and there was no reason for Alfons to be up so soon. Sometimes, Ed would find him sitting at the kitchen table, going over plans, taking notes, writing formulae. Heiderich was more likely to get up early and work alone, while Ed was more inclined to stay up late and sleep late. It fit better, he felt, with his natural rhythm. He had never been great at being an early riser. Usually, Ed would have just turned over in the bed and gone back to sleep, but something prodded him to get up and see what Heiderich was up to.

He _was_ at the kitchen table, sitting still as a statue in his nightshirt, with his head in his hands, fingers dug into his hair, eyes covered by his palms.

"Hey," Ed said quietly. "Are you okay?"

Alfons removed his hands from his face, raised his head. His eyes were red and puffy. Not sleeping? Crying? Ed felt his stomach twist.

"What's wrong?"

Heiderich didn't seem to want to speak. He hesitated, avoided his eyes. Finally he said, "Nothing. Just not feeling well. I'd better go to bed."

"You haven't been up all night, have you?"

"I don't know. Have I? What time is it?"

"Shit." Ed came close, grabbed Alfons's arm and pulled him up from the chair. He led him through to the bedroom and pushed him down onto the bed. Alfons didn't resist, lay down obediently.

"That was something," said Alfons. "Wasn't it?"

"What was?" Ed narrowed his eyes.

"That party last night. It was fun. Come on, admit it, you had a good time."

"Not really," said Ed.

Alfons frowned.

"But I guess it wasn't so bad," Ed found himself amending. He passed his hand over Alfons's brow. He wasn't hot, in fact he was kind of cold and clammy, a bit damp. And so pale. "You're right, it was fine. Even if we didn't get drunk."

"I want to do that again," Alfons said, almost distractedly. "I want to go to that party all over again."

"Why? To dance with Maria?" Ed found that he wasn't even jealous right now, only puzzled at the abstractions. What was Alfons doing? This wasn't like him. He seemed almost to be raving, although there was nothing but calm about him.

"No. To see you lick that painting again," said Alfons. He started laughing, alone, a kind of desolate cackle.

Ed stood over Alfons, stretched out on the bed, squinted down at him. Was he drunk? Unsettled, he wondered what to do next. Get back into bed again?

Alfons answered that question by extending his arm, his hand grabbing at the waist of Edward's shorts.

"Come lie down with me. Come on."

Ed climbed into the bed, trying to be careful of Alfons. He seemed breakable, so white and clammy, in a strange mood, so distant and serene.

"You're acting weird," Ed observed, lying down next to Alfons and pulling the blanket over the both of them. The bed had lost that seductive softness and warmness that was there when he awoke. He would have to work to get it back.

"I took some medicine, it makes me a bit…."

"Idiotic?"

Alfons laughed quietly. He was staring up at the ceiling. "I was going to say loopy."

They were both quiet for a while.

The heart beats in the chest. Fragile ribs curve around it, protecting it, and the lungs. Pink shiny masses of tissue. They take in and expel air without thought, just like the heart beats, inside the cage of the body. Some bodies, Alfons thought, seemed fragile, like his. His very bones felt brittle now, thinner, and his skin more translucent. He was sure he could see his veins more easily under his skin now, more bright, more blue, more suspect. Edward had fallen back to sleep, breathing deep and steady, eyes flitting under eyelids, dreaming away in the late morning.

It was getting hard to sleep. At least, it was getting hard to sleep in the night, which wasn't fair because then he would find himself wanting to sleep during the day, and then he would be lying awake all night, staring at the ceiling, listening to Edward breathe, tormenting himself with thoughts. Edward snored. He snorted in his sleep, he lay on his back with his arm draped over his stomach. His mouth was always open, and Alfons could see the tip of his tongue at the corner of his mouth. His hair splayed out around his head, in the daylight his skin looked warm and yellow. If Alfons stared at him long enough, as he often did during a long night of wakefulness, he started to get strange, panicky thoughts.

_Who is this person? _

This liar from another planet. That is what he had said, a few times. Another world, but he had always been drunk. Still, Alfons knew he was only half joking. Was he insane? Possibly. But Alfons thought not. He knew better. Edward Elric wasn't insane.

It was he, himself, who was going mad. Secretly, of course. It would be shameful to make a spectacle of himself. He was certain his mind and reason were going the way of his lungs, rotting from the inside out, a little germ, a spot of corruption in his brain. The medicine made him stupid, his mind was going. How sad to have peaked at eighteen.

Edward slept peacefully while Alfons lay there, medicine wearing off, needled with incipient pain, his fingertips tingling. When this happened, when his body ached and he couldn't move for the knife that was embedded in his lungs—knife, shattered glass, needles—he longed for the end of the world. He was selfish: why should everyone else just jolly along while he was headed for the grave? No one else shall be allowed to live.

Mad, selfish thoughts. He was too ashamed even to speak them.

Edward stirred from sleep again just before noon, and Alfons was quick to lay his head on his chest. Edward dug his fingers into his hair and Alfons closed his eyes, ready now for sleep. It would be all right if one of them was awake, always, to watch.

He couldn't get out of bed on Monday morning and Edward left him, promising to come back early. When he got up coughing around eleven, there was blood on his hand, from someplace deep inside him, and he washed it off in the kitchen while a horrid chill coursed through his body. Then he went back to bed in the middle of the day and lay there wondering, Will the end of my life just sneak up on me? Or will it come in stages?

He had no idea. After lying under the covers for a while, he became tired of feeling sorry for himself and got up to collect some books and papers, then got back into bed and arranged the things about himself. Pencils and cheap notepaper and books smelling of laboratories and libraries and things he liked, familiar. He wasn't going to take this lying down, he wasn't going to be beaten. He was going to make something of himself, and it was very likely going to be the last thing he did.

Edward's copy of Goddard's landmark paper was already well-worn and dog-eared by now, Edward's pencil-marks in the margins and swept under lines, smudged charcoal and graphite and some blotchy inked markings. Edward's handwriting was dreadful. Alfons liked having this with him, though, while Edward was out in the world. It kept him company. He had also several books given to them both by Oberth. He wondered if they would ever see him again; his time at the University had already been getting less and less frequent before last night's ominous statement, he was clearly phasing himself out of there and thinking about going back to Transylvania, and the idea of losing his mentor stung a bit. Who, now, would give him a chance to work? And Edward for that matter.

Deep into the day he read and took notes, plans formulating in his head. Taking off from their last prototype, which had ended in disaster, Alfons pursued their new direction, a rocket with an internal combustion engine. But how to continue the reaction long enough for a rocket to break through the earth's atmosphere? This was, he knew, Edward's chief interest, and he wasn't patient about it. Alfons had been more patient in the past, but that time was over now, too. He didn't have the time to wait it out.

He called upon all his knowledge of chemistry and physics, but hit upon the same stumbling blocks they all had, again and again. A rocket carrying enough fuel to sustain it over such a vast distance would have to be enormous, and yet, they had only succeeded in launching miniature prototypes with primitive fuses. Right now Edward would be at the University rigging up a few of them with the graduate students, preparing them for testing. But it seemed like child's play, the rockets only mere toys. To build something of substantial size would cost more money than he could possibly fathom.

Finally exhausted, he leaned back on the pillows and looked at the cracked ceiling. The words of Ostermann and Strauss came back to him. Things they couldn't imagine, huh? It was tempting after all, he had to admit. He understood Oberth's point about independence, but there came a point where he might be willing to risk some of that, to get at what he wanted.

It wasn't until he tried to stand up that he realized how ill he felt. Dizziness smacked him upside the head and he had to sit back down on the edge of the bed and wait for it to subside. Bringing the back of his hand to his brow he felt how damp and clammy he was, and suddenly his head felt stuffed with cotton, and his throat too. He hadn't eaten anything all day, and he was now conscious of a hunger and thirst gnawing away at him. He pushed himself off the bed and made for the kitchen, determined that he would eat something fortifying and feel better immediately. The cupboard was, as usual, empty. They had a pint bottle of milk on the window sill, slightly chilled in the April air but on the edge of going off. He thought he had better drink it all now and pulled off the cap. There was a dry heel of bread, and that was it. He ate that and washed it down with the milk, feeling sated but not really better. He began to cough in the kitchen, and though he didn't expectorate any blood this time, he felt things—liquid, needles—moving about in his chest and the prospect of this made his heart beat with something less than regularity.

Still dizzy, he retreated to bed and gathered the books around him. He was all right as long as he was sitting down, had the weight of the blankets anchoring him to the earth. He held onto the books as if they were life preservers and he was afloat in the ocean, now too tired to read, and fell asleep with the smell of them, the taste of them, in his mouth.

Alfons noticed that a day in bed could get boring once he started feeling better. He had opened his eyes to the church bells at five p.m. and his head felt a little clearer. He sat up, not so dizzy now, and waited for Edward to come home. He was trimming his toenails when Edward arrived, and was still bent over with his right foot pulled into his lap when Edward entered the room. He came straight to the bed and sat down heavily on the edge, silently and with apparent interest watching Alfons pick at his toenails.

"So, you're feeling better," he finally said. When Alfons met his eyes, he saw that he looked anxious.

"Yeah." Alfons stretched out his legs and looked at his feet. "I just needed some more sleep, I guess."

Edward sighed. He looked as if he were gathering himself up to say something, took in some breath, released it, looked around the room.

"Listen, if something's wrong, you have to tell me," Edward finally said.

"And be honest, you mean?" Alfons said, a little challengingly, he knew. What secrets Edward withheld from him, he could only imagine. They were intimate, and yet almost strangers, in so many ways. Spending a day apart only made it more plain. He wanted to be around him, and yet, when he was, the secrets sat like a wall between them.

Edward nodded. "Uh huh. Even if it's something bad."

Alfons drew his knees up to his chest. "And what about you? Don't you have things you want to tell me, but thought you couldn't?"

"Is that why you're hiding something, to get back at me?" Edward didn't seem angry, only surprised, as if he didn't realize that these things worked both ways.

Alfons let his right hand fall next to where Edward was sitting, palm up, fingers slightly curled, relaxed, the hand in its natural state. Empty.

"I guess so," he admitted, and Edward reached over his own lap, awkwardly, to put the fingers of his left hand on Alfons's palm. Alfons closed his own fingers around his. "I get tired of being grown up all the time."

Edward turned and faced him, not impressed. Unlike himself, Edward had not been a child for a long time, that much he knew. A silly thing to be sad about.

"So tell me. What've you been doing here all day? Is there a reason you want to work by yourself?" He nodded at all the books and papers in the bed. "Or…is there something else?" He closed his eyes then, slightly longer than a blink, as if he knew there was something he didn't want to hear.

There was a moment, there, where Alfons Heiderich was about to say it. He was going to confide his worst secret, and then be free. Free from having to hide it, anyway. But it wasn't necessary yet, not entirely, was it? The moment hung there, so solid in the air that he could have plucked it from the space between them and held it. Instead, he shook his head to clear it.

"I'm just…a little more worn out than I thought, that's all. I don't take it easy enough."

"No, you don't," Ed readily agreed. "Staying up all night like an idiot. You need to rest up, that's what you need. Isn't that what the doctor told you?"

"Yes, right." Alfons tried to smile. This lying thing was a lot easier than telling the truth, actually. It even made him feel like it was true. Still, he thought he should advance his cause just a little bit, laying the ground for the future. "I guess I'm not as strong as I like to pretend." Ed was looking down again. "We all lie to ourselves sometimes, right?"

He was poking at the hornet's nest now. In a moment it might come spilling out. Still, would Edward cry? Put his arms around him? Or would he run the other way? Not knowing, he couldn't speak.

"Did you hear me?" Alfons asked, unable to control the trembling in his voice.

There was another pause. Here was the part where Edward was supposed to volunteer to trade _his_ truth, to give lie to his lies.

"I heard you," said Edward, his voice a bit hard around the edges. "I just don't know what you're trying to say."

Alfons drew his knees closer to his chest, his arms squeezing himself tight. Edward shifted in the silence and they both looked out the window as night fell, first grey, then black.

"Are you hungry?" Edward finally broke the silence that had been ringing in Alfons's ears. He could not imagine what had been going through Edward's mind, and now he knew that it was food.

"A little."

Edward stirred, changed positions. "I'll go out and get us something. I thought we might go out and I was too lazy to bring something back. I promise not to do that from now on, since you don't really seem up to going out lately."

Thus promised, Alfons relaxed a bit and smiled. He stretched out again as Edward climbed off the bed and stood beside it, hesitating about leaving the room.

"I still don't know what to say…I feel like you wanted me to say something…I'm an idiot," he said. "Tell me what you want me to say."

Alfons didn't need to think, or didn't want to. He blurted out: "Say you won't leave."

Edward hesitated, looking stricken. The one thing, he knew, he shouldn't have asked of him. Wheels were turning, clocks ticking, the earth orbited the sun several times in the stretch of silence that followed.

"But Alfons…our plans…"

"For the love of God, Edward," Alfons said, exasperated. "Please tell me where the hell you want to go that's so much better than this."

"It's so much better than this," Edward said. "You have no idea."

Alfons was partly offended on behalf of his civilization, partly amazed at the look in Edward's eyes. Alfons laughed a little.

"If it's so great, can I come with you?"

Edward smiled, but he looked sad, and doubtful. It wasn't a promise of any kind.

"Sure you can," he said.

Alfons was out of commission for over a week. Ed nervously left him at home, feeling torn. He hadn't felt responsible for anyone since his brother…and it was both a relief and a burden to realize that he now had to think about someone else all the time. It wasn't just himself anymore. They were two, in it together.

He missed being with him today. Was it really true, that he liked him so much? Sometimes he wondered whether anything was true, the way this world messed with his head. Without Alfons with him, he walked more slowly. It was like it had used to be when he was separated from Al; alone, he was much, much less.

He crossed the University campus, making a bee-line for the laboratories. He'd spend hours working on the models with Bergmann and Kanter and Peters; Hohenheim, missing. Oberth, disengaged. Heiderich, the last rope holding him here, and it was fraying. He knew something bad was going on with him.

"Edward!" He heard his name through his thoughts, but didn't turn around. It was a popular enough name around here. But it came again and again, a woman's voice, and it came closer until it was right beside him.

It was Maria, grabbing his arm. She had a purple ribbon around her hair.

"I'm so glad I ran into you!" she said, breathless as always. She fell into step beside him. "I've been wanting to see you and Alfons again."

"Nice to see you again too," he said. He stopped walking and so did she.

"I wanted to invite you and Alfons to a soiree, at Otto's flat on Saturday. Please come."

"Soiree?"

"A get-together. A party. We thought of both of you, please come."

"Thanks for the invitation, but we can't. Alfons has been in bed all week."

"Oh!—I hope he's all right." Maria seemed genuinely concerned.

"He's getting better." He stood now, stuck for further conversation. He hadn't really enjoyed the party at the art gallery, and he was ashamed for the reason why.

"I'd like to drop by and visit with him," said Maria. "Do you think that would that be all right? Is he up to having visitors?"

Ed studied her face, embarrassed again. Jealousy needled him for a moment, but his higher feelings won out.

"Sure, I bet Alfons would like some company," he said.

Maria took a notebook and pencil out of her bag and asked for the address.

When he entered the lab he found Bergmann and Kanter, standing close together, both rolling cigarettes and speaking in low voices like they were conspiring about something, which struck Ed as odd because the two of them weren't really the best of friends. They had been endlessly competitive for the attention of Oberth and the other faculty, like kids trying to win their father's favor. Today proved to be no different, Ed saw. Their knitted eyebrows and shadowed faces suggested the usual.

"What's going on?" he asked, unbuttoning his jacket.

Kanter turned to him, and he could see that he was practically in tears.

"Peters! He took a job with that organization," he said. "He just swanned in here this morning, gathered up his stuff and took off."

"He was so damn pleased with himself," added Bergmann bitterly. "They've offered to pay him in francs."

Ed hung his jacket on the coatrack by the door. "You don't even know what kind of work they do," he said. "Too bad about the money, but you're probably not missing anything."

"I'm missing money for my family, that's what I'm missing," growled Kanter. Bergmann pounded the counter with his fist.

"Why don't we get to work?" said Ed. "It'll take your mind off it."

"What's the point? They don't pay us shit." Bergmann tossed his cigarette into a basin.

"Meanwhile," chimed in Kanter, "Oberth was in here yesterday and he took all his notebooks, the plans, everything. Said he was off to Gottingen but he'd check in."

Ed went to the worktable that he and Alfons shared and stared at the empty spaces where scrolls of plans and several notebooks had previously lain. Oberth had left only one plan, the replacement for the prototype rocket they had destroyed in testing several weeks before.

"What the fuck are we supposed to do now?" Kanter's lamentations rolled on. "I'll have beg to get back on Hausmann's team, he hates me, I'm completely screwed."

Ed sat down at the worktable and picked up a pencil with his left hand. He stared at the plans for the failed rocket. "Why are we even bothering?" echoed in his mind over and over.

"And where's Heiderich anyway?" demanded Bergmann, banging around across the room. "Skiving off again because he's not the teacher's pet anymore?"

That was it. Ed whipped his head around, holding up his right fist.

"Shut the fuck up, Bergmann," he snarled.

"I'm just—"

"Don't say another word about Heiderich if you know what's good for you!"

Bergmann backed away even though he was still across the room, waving his palms in surrender. "Okay, okay, calm down, kid." He didn't miss the raised eyebrows that were passed between Bergmann and Kanter.

Ed turned once again toward the table, but all he could see were lines and words and the stupid design for a piece of shit that wouldn't work anyway. Everything had fallen apart, and they had been going nowhere fast.

He tossed the pencil down on the worktable, a dark, heavy feeling descending from his brow to his neck and shoulders, slithering through his chest and settling in his stomach like a stone.

"I don't give up," he whispered under his breath. He could hardly say it out loud; he knew Peters and Bergmann would laugh at him, and maybe he hardly believed it himself anymore.

--

When Ed returned to the flat around five o'clock, he wasn't surprised to find that someone besides Alfons was there. Well, she didn't take her time, did she? He heard Maria's high, sharpish laugh bouncing off the walls the moment he pushed the door open. He didn't announce himself but took his time taking off his coat in the outer room so he could listen in.

Her voice, being higher, was easier to make out from the next room. Alfons spoke in a low, quiet voice.

Mrmrmrmrmmr.

I know! It's so funny, don't you think?

Mrmrmrmrmrmr.

I think so. I think he really believes it. But don't you…

Mrmrmr.

Really?

Mrmrmrmr.

I don't know.

Mrmrmrmrm.

Do you believe in…

Mrmrmrmr. Mrmrmrmrm. Mrmrmr?

Never.

Ed couldn't take it anymore. He coughed and moved a chair, then said, "Hello?" in a loud voice. Breaking into their intimate conversation, he felt like an interloper.

"Edward!" Alfons, at least, looked happy to see him when Ed stood in the doorway. He was still in bed but sitting up and wearing his sweater over his underwear, the blue one that was frayed at the neck and the sleeves, the one that smelled like sweat, so much so that Ed involuntarily wrinkled his nose as he drew closer. Maria must have already become used to the smell—or she had a cold. How dramatic he looked though, all pale but with high color on his cheeks, lock of hair fallen between his eyes, and he was laughing and smiling, leaning forward to be closer to Maria, altogether enjoying himself by the look of it, playing the invalid and getting all this attention. Maria was sitting on the edge of the bed but leaning on her arm, very close to Alfons.

"Hi Maria," Ed said, leaning in the doorway. "Nice of you to visit."

"I'm glad she came, I was getting bored," said Alfons. "Look, she brought pears!" He gestured to three plump green pairs sitting on the chair they kept by the bed as a night table.

"Nice," Ed said, glancing at the fruit. At that moment he realized that he'd forgotten to pick up food for supper again.

"Anything interesting happen at the lab today?" Alfons asked.

"Yeah, actually, something interesting did happen." Ed advanced into the room but realized, again, that now was not the time to discuss it. Maria had straightened up and had moved further down the edge of the bed, crossing her legs and putting her hands in her lap.

"I should get going," she said, standing up and smoothing her skirt. "It was nice to see you, Alfons. I hope you feel better soon. If you do feel up to it, I know Otto would love to have you on Saturday. I've left the address there, on the chair."

"Thanks for coming!" Alfons waved as she backed out of the room. Ed followed.

In the hallway, Maria's bright expression darkened.

"He's really sick, isn't he?" she said.

Ed's heartbeat quickened. Why did everyone seem to know things he didn't? "What did he say?"

"Nothing. I can just tell. My father's a doctor, I do reception in his office sometimes, I've seen patients all my life. I've heard that cough, and he has the look about him." She looked down at her hands as she pulled on her frayed lavender gloves.

"Anyway, I'm sorry for him. I didn't realize before."

"It's not your fault, is it?" Ed hadn't meant to sound so hostile.

"No," she said sharply. "But that's what people say when they're, you know, sorry. For someone, I mean." She picked up a small, black straw hat that had been lying on the small table in the hallway and placed it on her head, her eyes avoiding Ed's. "I'll come again, if that's okay with you."

"Why wouldn't it be? You don't have to ask my permission."

She smiled then, showing her small, even teeth. She cocked her head toward her shoulder.

"I'm sure I don't," she said. Ed held the door open for her as she left.

Later, after going out to hunt and gather food, Edward returned with some potatoes, a tin of soup, milk, half a loaf of bread, the remainders at the last of the merchants shutting down at the market. He peeled and sliced the pears, heated the soup, toasted the bread and brought it all into the bedroom where the two of them ate in bed, not caring about crumbs and dripping soup.

"This is the nice part about being grown up," remarked Alfons, tipping the last of his soup into his mouth. "My mother would never let me eat in bed, unless I was literally too sick to get out of it."

"Mine wouldn't either." Edward licked his bowl before discarding it on the chair next to the bed.

"So," said Alfons. "They have mothers and beds where you come from?"

"Of course. They have most of the same stuff." Edward chewed vigorously on a crust of rough brown bread, his mouth wide open, as he willfully ignored Alfons's sarcasm. "Even cheap bread that you can't chew through for shit."

Edward shut his mouth and swallowed. Alfons saw the knot of bread travel down his throat. The mouth stayed closed; there would be no more chatter about his erstwhile home.

"So, tell me about what happened at the lab today."

Edward recounted the story: Oberth clearing out his things, and anything related to his work, and Peters gone to that organization. Alfons was as surprised as Edward that they had been serious enough about recruiting people to go back for Peters.

"Still, it'd be nice to be paid in francs."

"What the hell do you need francs for?" Edward was suddenly animated again. "Saving up to buy a house?"

"N-no…"

"I don't know what difference it makes. Yeah it's nice to be paid, but you heard what Oberth said. You want to be their dog?"

"Hell no, but I want to work! I want to do what we've always said we were going to do. We need money and materials for that."

"I'm not anybody's lapdog," Edward said stubbornly.

"I get it already. Let's not have a fight about it," Alfons snapped. He felt his chest growing tight and fought to stop an onslaught of coughing. He tried to be still and breathe through his nose.

"And anyway," Ed went on, "it's all fucking shot to shit. It's just a matter of days before we get kicked out of the lab with Oberth gone like that. We need to get new jobs."

Alfons coughed into his hand, once, relieved that it didn't seem it would go any further just now. He pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. New jobs were a tall order and they both knew it. There were scarcely any jobs as it was, in any field. There was casual physical labor around the city, digging ditches, the coalyards, construction; they were repairing roads all over town, but neither of them were up to that kind of thing.

"We'll starve if we don't do something," Edward continued. Why couldn't he just shut his mouth already? Alfons wondered at how Edward became more talkative the more angry he was. Alfons himself tended to shut down. Going on about it just made things worse.

An idea occurred to him. "Hey…remember that guy who knew Oberth? What was his name, Ehrlinger or something? The one who had us do that demonstration in the park? I bet we could get some work off him…at least a little. It's almost summer, there's got to be more exhibitions, right?"

"Yeah, I guess we can look him up." Edward sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and looked at his hands sitting idly in his lap.

Now that they had at least something to be hopeful about—and it was pretty meager but it would have to suffice—Alfons felt a bit more relaxed. He leaned back against the headboard, wincing at the creak it made. The whole bedstead was loose, it practically swayed if they moved around on it too much. Which they often did.

Edward glanced at him over his shoulder. The look on his face was a new one, recent at least. Edward's eyes had always had a touch of sadness in their depths, but this was something else.

"What?"

Edward shook his head as if to clear it and applied himself to removing his boots, then his trousers, before climbing into bed. They both smiled as it creaked and swayed before settling again.

"I think you have the right idea," he said, pulling the quilt over himself. "Let's just stay here from now on." He moved his legs, shifting stray books and crusts of bread about. "Everything we need is right here. Books and food…"

Alfons smiled and turned on his side to face Edward. They just looked at each other for a moment, trying to overcome the shyness that still seemed to dog them even in their intimacy. Would they ever get over it? It was such strange territory, and yet Alfons felt like this is what he had been waiting for all his life.

"Say fuck," said Edward. He was lying on his side resting his cheek on his hand. Alfons noticed the short, bitten fingernails, dirt and oil etched around them.

"What?" Alfons smiled.

"I want to hear you say dirty words. You never do, hardly ever." He bit his lower lip and smiled wickedly. "Say it."

Alfons huffed. "Fine. Fuck."

Edward's lips parted and he smiled. "What's the worst swear word in German? Tell me….you're blushing! You can't even say it."

Edward's mouth twisted before he pitched forward, laughing.

Alfons pushed Edward with his hand. "God, you're blushing yourself, this is so stupid! My father's brother was a sailor, he knew curses in twenty languages. It's not like I've never heard them. My mother used to smack me if I used them, that's all. Weren't you brought up right?"

Edward raised his chin. "I'll have you know I was raised by the toughest women ever known, and any one of them would belt me for swearing, even my mother. Never could break the habit, though. Anyway, once I was in the military…but I've already told you that." He looked down again. "You didn't believe me, of course."

"It doesn't make sense."

"Yeah, well, lots of things don't make sense." Edward chewed his lip again. "I'm not lying."

Alfons couldn't help but reach out and touch Edward's cheek, stroked it then quickly snapped his fingernail against his skin.

"Hey! What was that for?"

There was now a bright red mark on Edward's cheek. Alfons leaned forward to kiss it. As always, Edward blushed like he didn't deserve to be treated nicely. This always got to Alfons, every time, that look of pure surprise, every time. He moved closer and pressed his mouth to Edward's.

Edward raised his head and pressed his mouth forward now, his hand moving to grab at his hair, his neck. He was still a bit clumsy, Edward, it was so endearing the way he settled into a kiss, a stroke, as if for a while, and then suddenly jerked into another position, looking for the next thing to kiss.

Later, the rhythm of being together would inspire a mantra he repeated in his mind, Don't forget me don't forget me don't forget me, over and over again. When he was spent, Edward was still lying against his stomach, and Alfons rose up on his elbows to see the top of his head, the parting of his hair, that little cowlick fallen damp against his forehead. He bent his head back, raised his eyes.

"I wouldn't forget you," Edward said. He sounded slightly affronted.

"Did I say that out loud?" Alfons was still propped on his elbows, and didn't even wonder if he was blushing, he was already entirely red in the face, he knew.

"Yeah, you did." Edward hitched himself up the mattress until he was lying next to him. Almost agressively, he pressed the top of his head under Alfons's chin. "But don't worry…it looks like I'll be sticking around, at least for a little while." He added a little laugh, to show that he was kidding, whatever he thought he meant. Alfons wasn't sure; all he could think was, _Edward doesn't know who will be leaving first. Because it might be me. _

Alfons let Edward fall asleep on his chest, and wondered if this was the last time _that_ would happen.

It was a gray morning, as per usual in this rainy month. Ed splashed cold water from the kitchen basin onto his face, then huffed against the chill as he rubbed soap into his armpit, then awkwardly reached to rinse it out, splashing himself all over with the icy water in the process. He grit his teeth. Why hadn't they managed to fucking develop showers in this place?

Ed couldn't remember the last time he had seen a glorious morning. Maybe there were a few passably pleasant ones last summer in Transylvania, but in Munich they were mostly cold and grey, or too hot. He steeled himself for more cold as he passed his hand over the rough bar of soap, cupped it under the tap, and then rubbed it into his crotch. His teeth chattered, and water pooled around his feet. This was very unpleasant, but their neighbor was hogging the shared bathroom down the hall, and he was in a hurry. He would have dispensed with washing altogether but for the fact that he and Alfons had…messed eachother up the night before. Shuddering in the cold kitchen washing himself down with one cupped hand, he was beginning to think it hadn't been worth it. What he wouldn't give for a lovely hot high-pressure shower…

Seriously, this was getting old. This place…if it weren't for Alfons, he couldn't imagine where he'd be. If he hadn't taken him in after Hohenheim had disappeared…if he didn't have someone, just this one person, that he cared about here, where would he be? He dried himself with a small square of worn flannel, then quickly returned to the bedroom to get dressed. Alfons was still lying in bed, but his eyes were open and his head was turned toward the window. The sky was brightening.

"So, are you getting up?" Ed asked, hopeful. "Aren't we going to see that guy?"

Alfons turned to face him. He smiled and stretched, and Ed was relieved to see that he looked better than he had in at least a week. He sat up and stretched again, then swung his legs off the bed.

"Sure. It'll definitely brighten things up to have another job lined up," Alfons said brightly. He stood up and seemed to wobble for just a moment before he stood up straight. "I should have a quick bath first though. Is there any hot water?"

Ed shook his head with exaggerated grief. "And Gunther seems to have locked himself in the bathroom, so the kitchen sink's all yours."

Ed looked around for a clean shirt, finding a not-so-dirty one, while he listened to Alfons splash around in the kitchen. Then he made tea and toast while Alfons dressed, feeling strangely optimistic, given that he was fairly certain they were both about to be out of a job, and out of supplies for their research. As he was setting the plates on the table, he heard a knock at the door.

He was expecting the landlady when he opened the door, but there was no one there. He heard the front door creak shut a floor below, but still paused to look around the narrow hallway and to peer down the dark staircase. Nothing. He drew back to close the door when his eyes fell on the large square parcel, wrapped in brown paper, at his feet.

Bringing it inside and to the table, Ed felt a bit unsettled by how light the package was despite its size. It felt like it contained nothing. He shook it a little, gingerly at first, then a bit harder, until he could detect that there did seem to be a small something inside. He set it down and tore it open in an instant.

Alfons finished dressing, taking a little more care than usual. He felt unusually well today, and had already begun to slide back into that place where nothing was really that bad, and that doctor was surely mistaken, and everything was going to be all right, and he and Edward had had such a nice time last night. He even considered putting on a collar and tie for a moment, before abandoning the idea as silly. He only had one collar; maybe he'd save it for that party this weekend. The piece of paper with Otto's address had fallen on the floor next to the bed, and he picked it up and put it in his pocket.

He left the bedroom purposefully, feeling the spring in his step.

"Thanks for making breakfast," he said, smelling the burning toast as he entered the kitchen.

Edward was standing over the table. Something new and unexpected was here, a cardboard box, its lid standing open, and wadded up sheets of brown wrapping paper at Edward's feet.

"What's this? Something came in the post?"

Edward didn't turn around, only held up his left hand, where something small and dark and shiny sat. Alfons took a step closer.

"What is that? It looks like a rock."

"It's not a rock," said Edward in a strangely thin voice. Alfons reached for it but Edward closed his hand around it and then pressed it tightly to his chest.

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

With the philosopher's stone in his hand, to Ed it seemed as if the world had stopped turning. He might have been back home. The smooth, irregularly shaped stone, barely four centimeters long and maybe two wide, was clenched in his fist. He thought that he felt it almost vibrating, like it was a piece of his own world, calling him home.

He hardly dared to breathe. In fact, his chest hurt with some kind of pain he couldn't assign a cause to, other than shock. He stood motionless for a few moments, minutes, hours, he couldn't tell. He had forgotten that there was someone else in the room with him until Heiderich gave a little cough.

He opened his eyes and turned to him. Alfons was staring at him curiously, his blue eyes wide and shining with curiosity.

"So, are you going to tell me what that is?" he asked.

Ed took a deep breath, held it, expelled it.

"It's a philosopher's stone. I can tell just by looking at, how it feels…it's a powerful amplifier for the practice of alchemy."

Alfons narrowed his eyes. He seemed to be thinking, but said nothing, just looked at the stone Ed held toward him on his outstretched palm.

"In other words," Ed ventured, "It's my ticket home."

Their plans for the day sidelined, Ed and Alfons sat down at the kitchen table, the stone sitting innocently on a tea-stained saucer. Shining a bit sinisterly, Alfons thought, as he continually eyed the thing, while Edward explained the philosopher's stone. Now that this material object had shown up, at this strange time, in an unmarked package, left by a mysterious stranger, his mind was considerably more open to the possibility that at least some of what Edward was saying was actually true. What was even more convincing, however, was how sober Edward was about the whole thing. A madman would be jumping around or frothing at the mouth, or something, wouldn't he? Edward seemed lightning-struck, blindsided, like a longed-for hope was unexpectedly returning to him.

"So," Alfons said carefully. "If it actually is what you say it is, what do you do now?"

Edward didn't immediately respond, only kept staring at the rock, until he suddenly rose from his chair, pushed it back almost violently, and leaned over the table, rummaging around until he found a steak knife. Without speaking, Edward seized it like a weapon in his left hand, looked wildly about the room, then back at the table, before snatching the stone with his right hand, then pushing everything on top of the table onto the floor with one fluid sweep of his right arm.

Alfons felt himself jump in his seat, but he was too interested to run for cover. Edward was suddenly like a man possessed: gripping the knife, he began to draw on the square table top, viciously gouging the surface of the table with the knife even after the tip had broken off. He was frantically embossing something onto the table's surface, a pattern, with circles and lines and points within it, all obviously not random, and yet, making no apparent sense. It just seemed to be some kind of design. Edward worked feverishly on this project for ten or fifteen minutes, and he was so intent that Alfons did not dare disturb him. He tried to enjoy, for the moment, the sight of Edward concentrating so hard, perspiring with inspiration, the muscles in his back and jaw working as he focused.

Finally, Edward stepped back, biting his lower lip, and surveyed his work.

"What is it?" Alfons asked, rather timidly, he thought. For Edward seemed to be possessed of some energy that he hadn't yet perceived in him.

"It's an alchemical array," Edward said, still looking at it. He leaned forward and perfected a small notch in the outermost circle. Then he picked up that rock from where he had placed it on the table, and put it in the middle of the design. He looked so solemn, as if he were praying, his hands pressed together, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

"Here goes nothing," he then said, but Alfons could readily see that Edward was now panting with excitement, his breath coming short and sharp, his skin pale. He placed his hands at three o'clock and nine o'clock on the drawing and seemed to hold his breath waiting for some result.

Alfons surprised himself by being disappointed when nothing happened. Edward had seemed so serious, the rock and this design so mysterious, that he realized that he had totally bought into the idea that whatever Edward was trying to do was going to work. But Edward's spine collapsed, he fell into the chair, slammed his hands against the table, --"Dammit!"—and then let his head fall onto the table too.

"Shit shit shit," he said quietly. "Shit."

He kept his head down, and Alfons could see his back rising and fall with shuddering breaths. Surprised again—was Edward crying? He leaned over and put his hand on Edward's back.

"Hey…are you all right?"

Edward raised his head. He wasn't crying, exactly, but he looked like he was about to either rage or break down. His eyes were damp, rimmed red, staring, almost dead.

"No, I'm not," Edward said, rather unnecessarily. That much was clear. He picked up the stone from the center of the design and hurled it across the room. Alfons heard it clatter against the window and then fall into the sink. "I'm never going to fucking get out of here!" He stood up, deliberately upsetting his chair and then throwing it over, he kicked it and stalked to the basin, crossed his arms and stared defiantly at the small crack he had made in the windowpane, mouth tense as if he wanted to scream again, so wound up he looked like he was about to leap through the glass and take flight. Alfons imagined that was probably what he wanted to do.

Alfons sat for a moment, his stomach prickling with anxiety. He'd never seen Edward act quite like this. He rose and went to stand next to his friend at the sink, carefully taking up the rock and sliding it into his pocket. It wouldn't do for it to go down the drain. He knew Edward well enough to know that he would want it again soon enough.

"I'm sorry for…whatever it was that just happened," Alfons said. "Whatever you were trying to do, I see that you knew what you were doing. If it's any help, I believed in it too."

He thought that was a nice thing to say. He had believed in it for a while there, but even now, with just a few minutes having passed, gouging that crazy design into the table seemed like something a madman would do. He felt a rush of pity for Edward, and reached out to pat his back.

"You want to know what I was doing?" Edward continued to stare at the bright window. "I drew a simple array, the very simplest, just to transmute the shape of the table top. The kind of thing I could do when I was eight years old."

"All right," Alfons said, careful not to sound patronizing. "So it didn't work."

"It never fucking works here, that's the point," said Edward. "But I thought, with the stone, maybe, just maybe, it would. Otherwise what the hell is the purpose of it? Why would someone give it to me? Just to fucking taunt me?"

Alfons reached into his pocket and withdrew the rock. He held it between his fingers, examined it. It was crimson in color, almost black, and it was a crystal, mostly smooth with some edges poking out, irregular in shape. It did not feel or look particularly special. Although he hadn't seen another one like it, it most certainly did not seem otherworldly. But his scientific curiosity was kicking in.

"What is it made of, then? What are its properties?"

"It consists of some elements familiar to this world, mercury and sulfides, mainly," Edward said. "But what makes it a genuine philosopher's stone in my world…" His voiced trailed off.

"What?" Alfons couldn't help but cross his arms.

Edward shook his head.

"Tell me." Alfons sidled close to Edward, until their shoulders were touching, and leaned into him. "If you tell me, maybe we can work on this together…please."

Edward sighed.

"I'll believe whatever you say," Alfons heard himself promise.

Edward stepped to the side and turned to look up at him. "Why?" Edward asked, narrowing his eyes. "Why now? Why after all this time? Just because this stupid pebble shows up, all of a sudden you're all ready to be convinced?"

Alfons insisted on holding Edward's gaze. This was it, he realized, the tipping point. If he refused to accept this now, to genuinely trust Edward, he would never confide in him again. He had to believe in him. There had to be more than this, he realized. He wanted there to be more.

"Because…now I want to, all right? I want to be convinced. I want you to convince me."

Edward's skepticism seemed to give a little, but not completely. Still meeting the challenge of Alfons's gaze, he crossed his arms this time and drew himself up to his full height, perhaps gaining a couple of centimeters in the process.

"Why?" Edward asked again.

This time Alfons was either going to have to back down or tell the truth. Not feeling quite so brave as he would have liked, he dropped Edward's gaze and decided to look at his feet. His heart beat slowed with disappointment in himself. Was he really such a coward?

"What can you do with that?" Alfons asked. "Here, I mean."

"I don't fucking _know_," Edward said, clearly agitated, his eyes looked almost frantic, and his voice was cracking with frustrated emotion. "Whoever sent that to me…they're testing me, or something, I don't know." He shook his head, seemingly lost. Alfons couldn't help himself, stepping forward again, he reached for Edward's shoulders with his hands, then pulled him close. He laid his cheek against Edward's hair.

"We'll find them, and we'll make that thing work."

Edward sighed against him. "What makes you so sure about this all of a sudden?"

Alfons just squeezed him tighter, so that Edward struggled against him and pulled away slightly so that he could look up at his face.

"This could be really, really important. For me, maybe for us. You understand that?"

Alfons was almost mesmerized by how sure Edward seemed about this. He nodded.

Edward stepped back now and held open his hand again to gaze at the crimson crystal on his palm. "Now who the hell—"

"It was Strauss and Ostermann, those guys, I'm sure of it," Alfons said, suddenly animated again. "It makes sense, just think about it. They clearly know something about you…I'm assuming they know something about your father…they couldn't get at you the direct way, so…" He looked at Edward, excited now and full of hope that his guess was correct.

Edward clenched the thing in his fist again. "You may be right. Who else would it be? Those things they said, "things you can't imagine"….but how, how would they know how to make one of these?"

Alfons reached for Edward's fist, his flesh hand, warm and tightly clenched around the little stone. He held his fist between his hands, then gently began to pry it open. Once in his own hand again—why did it feel like he was constantly wanting to hold this thing, and taking it back, and giving it back, and wanting it again?--- he looked at it closely, then held it up to the light at the window. He put it to his eye and squinted into the stone, for a moment getting lost in the clear, crimson sea.

"Hey, Edward," he said, swallowing before voicing his next thought. "You say that this magnified alchemic reactions where you're from?'

"Uh huh," Edward confirmed.

"Well, what if…what if it magnifies _chemical_ reactions here?" His heart beating fast, he turned to look at Edward, lips parted in excitement. "I mean, what if it—"

"---can enhance the power of fuel in the combustion engine?" Edward finished his thought. Alfons could see Edward's face flush with excitement and imagined that his own looked the same.

"Then we'd have a way to propel a rocket out of the atmosphere," Alfons said, barely believing it himself. His voice fell to a hoarse whisper, thick with emotion, and hope. "Do you think it could work?"

Edward glanced at the stone in Alfons's hand.

"If we knew how to activate it here," he said. "Maybe…"

Alfons felt a wave of exhaustion after that sudden wave of excitement. His knees began to shake and he found himself plunging toward the table and scrambling for a seat before he fell down. Edward caught his arm as he fell into the chair.

"Shit!" he said. "You almost wiped out. I thought you said you were better!"

"I _am_ better," Alfons said, struggling to catch his breath and regulate his heartbeat. He felt the familiar prickling beginning in his lungs and throat and struggled to master it. He took a shallow breath but the pain had already started. He began to cough, covering his mouth with his arm to stifle the sharpness of the sound. He began to gasp for breath and his eyes teared up, long before he noticed that Edward was shoving a glass of water at him. He drank some and it helped, his heartbeat calming as he took air slowly through his nose.

"That's it, I'm taking you back to that doctor you saw at the hospital before we do anything," Edward said sternly.

Alfons shook his head and swiped at his tearing eyes with the back of his hand. When he tried to speak, his voice came out hoarse and ragged, like an old man's.

"No, I'm fine."

Edward sat down heavily in the chair next to him.

"Just for the record," he said, placing his hand on Alfons's knee. "I don't believe you."

Alfons looked down at the hand on his knee for a moment, waging war with himself. If he could just get himself to admit it…he just wasn't sure about what would happen next. He swallowed and put his hand over Edward's, closed his eyes.

"Listen," Edward said softly. "Where I come from, that stone…it can help heal people…if we can figure out how to—what's the matter? Is it that bad?"

Alfons couldn't open his eyes, he only knew that tears—real ones—were beginning to leak out of the corners. He wanted to say everything, and to say that he loved Edward, that he didn't want him to leave him, that he didn't know how much time he had left, that he'd do anything, anything to launch a real rocket, to make his name, and to do it with Edward.

"I don't want to die," was all he managed to say. And before he knew it, Edward's arms were around him.

"I won't let you," said Edward, with surprising conviction. And for now, Alfons chose to believe him.

They sat in the kitchen for a while. The embrace melted away, but they still linked fingers—carelessly, Alfons thought, excited by how easy and natural it was—while they discussed their plan. It was clear that Edward had to go see Ostermann and Strauss and the shadowy organization. The question was, should they go together? How safe was it? They were both uneasy about it, Edward even more so than Alfons.

"For once I wish my father was around," Edward said. He had gotten up to retrieve the business card Strauss had given him from the small table in the entranceway. There was only the phone number. "I want to show it to him, the stone." Edward glanced at where it lay on the table. Now that the kitchen had lost the sunlight and the illumination was dim, it looked opaque and obsidian, and not very special, Alfons thought. Just a stupid black rock. It was decided—Edward would call Strauss and say that both of them wanted to meet with him.

Edward finished dressing and went into the downstairs hallway to use the telephone. In the mean time, Alfons remained at the table, still reeling a bit at having told Edward his secret. So, that was it? And nothing changed. Edward hadn't backed away from him, and they had gone on with planning, as before. It was both comforting and unsettling. In a way, he had expected everything to change with his admission, and yet, what did he expect Edward would do, really? How would the world be altered?

He received his answer the moment Edward returned from making the phone call.

"He says he'll meet us at a coffee shop by the Hauptbahnhof at six o'clock." Without giving Alfons a chance to react, he came over, pulled Alfons out of his chair and led him to the bedroom. He brought Alfons to the edge of the bed, then pushed him a little less than gently down onto the mattress. "Until then, you lie down and stay there."

Alfons laughed. "I don't need to stay in bed, I'm fine."

Edward crossed his arms and looked down at him. "Bullshit. I don't believe you, after what you just said to me in the kitchen. Until I hear a doctor say you're better, you're taking it easy."

"Because you say so?" Alfons mockingly challenged him, but secretly he was very pleased that Edward was taking command of the situation. He realized that that was what he had wanted, to have him share this, so he wouldn't be alone, so they'd be in it together. His smiled disappeared immediately upon realizing that wanting this was also very selfish; he was going to die, and Edward was going to be left alone, and hurt…if he flattered himself. But when he looked up at Edward again, those golden eyes were blazing and he was still in that bossy stance, feeling dominant because he was standing up while Alfons was sitting down. Alfons was moved to put his arms around Edward's waist, and, pulling him closer, pressed the side of his face to his stomach, squeezing hard. Edward's flesh hand came to first stroke his hair and then gently rubbed his back.

They stayed that way for quite a while, until the sun left the window and traveled Westwards, and the air in the room grew cooler and still. Alfons could have fallen asleep like that, but he felt Edward shift his weight from his bad leg and back again, and knew that he was getting uncomfortable. Alfons pulled away and lay down without a word, letting Edward pull the tattered quilt over him.

"I'll get you up in a couple of hours," Edward said.

It was the first time in a long, long time that Alfons fell asleep easily. The last thought he had before dropping off was of holding the stone, warm in his hand.

Ed sat in the kitchen with the stone in his hand. It heated up as he held it, got almost burning hot, or so he thought, as he rubbed it briskly. Philosopher's Stones were like that, and he was led to wonder if not the slightest remnant of his alchemical power were exciting the stone. He tried to eat some toast, but ended up just staring at the transmutation circle on the table, at the stone, contemplating nonsense space while he kept exhorting himself to turn his attention to Strauss and Ostermann and the upcoming meeting. The business at hand. But still, he could not focus, all he could think about was Alfons saying "I don't want to die."

Oh, this is going to hurt. That was his first thought. Not until he was bounding down the stairs to the telephone did it cross his mind, a split second temptation—run away, get away from here. Heiderich will only drag you down, hold you back…you got too attached to him. And now look what's happened…why had he said what he did, that he wouldn't let him? Who was he to say that? Besides, it was bullshit.

Their first kiss had been on a cold November evening, in a barely-heated room with a weak fire hissing and sparking and struggling away in the grate, the smell of damp coal, the whistle of the wind shaking the glass of the windows in Heiderich's flat. They had both been drinking, a bit, not a lot, they were still, as Hohenheim would have said, showing off his Latin, compos mentis. Edward hadn't been two nights in the flat, and he wouldn't go back to Hohenheim's even after he drifted back into town again, because after that kiss, Ed had changed.

He had changed in an interesting way, when he dared to think about it, which he mostly avoided. It wasn't something he had gone looking for or anticipated. In fact, before, he had half convinced himself that the kind of desires that getting close to Alfons had ignited were going to be satisfied, for the rest of his life, at least in this world, by his own hand. Before coming to this world, he had spent his adolescence dreaming of nobody in particular, but using the faces and imagined bodies—under all that clothing—of people he knew. He hadn't ever confronted to himself who those people actually were, but they were people like Colonel Mustang and Lieutenant Havoc and that fucking Russell Tringham and other male acquaintances.

He also remembered the sharp, strange sense of embarrassment he would always get when Winry touched his hair or his cheek, getting the distinct impression, at least as they got older, that he was supposed to feel more excited than ashamed. In those days he had been too busy to think about what that meant, but when he had crossed the Gate and his father had begun gently needling him about "meeting girls" and getting married some day, he had always shut him down.

He hadn't expected anything, anything, of what came at him on this side of the Gate. He had been so disoriented and dispirited that for months he could barely attend to his own momentary happinesses. He was disassociated from his body, hating it more than ever without the automail. Then, thinking of people like Mustang and Havoc and Tringham reminded him sharply of home, and how he missed them, and the hideous ache he felt for his brother--which he tried to squash and ignore--was too, too painful. But one thing was the same on both sides of the Gate: it wasn't until he had met Alfons Heiderich that he had begun pleasuring himself again.

Sitting alone in the kitchen, he thought of Alfons, the way his skin felt against his own the first time they really touched, the softness of his lips and the surprising thickness of his hair. The pure, unadulterated astonishment and wonder that he felt when his desires were reciprocated.

Thinking about the taste of Heiderich's skin brought stinging tears to Ed's eyes, and he was so shocked by this that, even though he was alone in the room, he cleared his throat, stood up and busied himself with picking up off the floor the things he had swept off the table an hour before. That closeness…he'd never had that with anybody, not that kind, and not even with Al. Could he have…? Ed shook his head to banish the thought. That wasn't allowed, not here, maybe not anywhere, ever. Not only was this relationship illicit, it was also ultimately pointless. Or, more accurately, its point was that it was going to end badly.

He sat down again, exhausted by the thoughts plaguing him. Only a few days ago, he had felt stuck and going in circles, and now everything, everything was suddenly fraught with terrible purpose. It reminded him of another time.

Ed traced his flesh finger along the edge of the transmutation circle he had gouged into the table. Although this circle was dead and useless, he knew that somehow he and Alchemy were about to become reacquainted.


	4. Chapter 4

Before entering the cafe, Ed could see Strauss with his narrow shoulders and his thinning hair sitting alone at a table through the plate glass window. He and Alfons stopped and peered through, watched Strauss take out his pocket watch and glance at it and put it away before frowning down at the cup of coffee and the pastry sitting uneaten in front of him. They shared a look before Ed pulled the heavy door open.

Strauss stood for them. It seemed to Ed that he was putting on a mocking courtliness as he shook both their hands, before nodding at the two empty dainty iron chairs gathered around the tiny table. Ed always felt awkward around such small furniture and took care to sit down without knocking anything over with his false limbs, while Alfons tried to find a place to comfortably put his long legs.

"Are we settled, then?" Strauss said impatiently, once they had stopped fidgeting with arranging their coats. Way to get off to a good start, Ed thought sourly. Strauss was just as patronizing as he had been on their first meeting. Given this, Ed wasn't going to waste any time getting to the point. He immediately reached into his vest pocket for the stone and put it on the table.

"What the hell is this supposed to mean?"

Strauss smiled, and Ed immediately noticed his pointy yellowed teeth, leading him to trust him even less than he already did.

"So, sending it to you had the desired effect," said Strauss, lifting his coffee cup and taking a sip. "We thought it would be the sure way to get you to come to us."

Ed glanced at Alfons before forging ahead. "How did you get it?"

Strauss replaced his cup on the saucer and looked intently at the stone before picking it up and holding it at eye level over the center of the table, so they could all look at it, the center of attention.

"Your father made it for us, Edward," said Strauss. "It's a perfect specimen, too, from what I've been told." He replaced it on the table. "Not that I'm an expert on these things."

But Ed's heart had begun racing at the mention of his father; his mouth became immediately dry. "He—he did?" Still overwhelmed with this information, Ed fixed his gaze on the stone and tried to process what he'd heard. "But…two weeks ago you said you didn't know where he was."

"Well, we found him," said Strauss. "And now he's working for us."

"I don't believe he made that for you," Ed said, anger beginning to replace his shock. "He would never---"

But he was stopped in mid-sentence by the smug look on Strauss's face. "We have access to the raw materials," Strauss said mildly, taking up his coffee again.

Ed glanced at Alfons, who looked pretty confused. Of course he did; he had no idea how a stone like that was made. Ed felt certain that Hohenheim would never had made a stone for them, would never have taken lives willingly; he wasn't even sure, of course, how they could have gotten alchemy to work to make the stone in the first place. But this stone was real, and he knew it.

"Where is he? I want to see him," Ed said, knowing full well that this was what Strauss—and whoever he worked for—wanted. He hated being manipulated, but he just had to see his father, he had to know how he made that stone, because obviously he had finally figured out a way to use alchemy.

Strauss nodded. "Of course, I knew you would. I have a car waiting." He reached into his pocket and tossed a few marks onto the table. "Let's go."

The car was new, and surprisingly roomy. Ed had never been in such a large car. Alfons slid in first, then Ed, after Strauss swept his arm aside for them to enter. The seat was so wide that none of them were touching as they sat on the bench seat. There were even little red curtains in the back windows. Strauss instructed the driver, sitting silently in front in his sharp hat, to get going.

"Where are we—"

"To Garching. It's not far, just a few miles outside of town. That's where our main laboratory is. It doesn't look like much but still, I think you'll be very impressed." Strauss rolled down the window on his side and took out a silver cigarette case. He snapped it open and offered it to Ed and Alfons, but they both politely declined. Ed wouldn't have minded a smoke, anything to distract him from the near-panic that had seized him from the moment Strauss had said that Hohenheim had made the stone for them. That meant one thing, Ed was pretty certain. This trip was predictably dangerous, and he was already regretting having taken Alfons with him. But when he glanced over at him, Alfons was looking serenely out the window he had just rolled down on his side, trying not to be too conspicuous about taking gulps of fresh air while the smoke from Strauss's cigarette rolled through the car.

"So, you've seen my father, personally?" Ed asked, as Strauss flicked the remainder of his cigarette out the window.

"I've met him briefly. He's been working hard in the short time he's been with us."

"So he's been staying there?" Ed asked, completely mystified. Hohenheim wouldn't have returned to Munich and not contacted him. It seemed strange.

"He'll tell you," said Strauss. He patted Ed's right knee briskly.

The car had left the paved streets and was now barreling down an unpaved road. It was bumpy going and Ed found himself bracing himself against the shocks by pressing down on the seat with his hands. Every bump jolted where his false limbs met his flesh. It was just the thing that was most painful. As the car made a sharp turn, Ed glanced over at Alfons, who looked a bit green. Alfons swallowed thickly and gave a smile of forbearance through gritted teeth.

Yeah, we're in great shape, Ed thought bitterly. Great shape to be walking into who knows what. He didn't have a clear picture in his mind of where they were going, and Strauss was intentionally being short on detail. Ed couldn't shake the feeling that something very bad was going on here, that seeing Hohenheim was going to make things worse, not better. He had taken the stone back off the little table in the café and once more he groped for it in his vest pocket. How many people's lives were sacrificed to make this, he wondered. The little stone was like condensed death; now he could barely believe that when he was younger he had once been willing to make one, had even contemplated taking lives so that he and his brother could have what they wanted. They had been so stupid, and so selfish. Hohenheim knew better now, too, he knew. At least, he thought he did.

After the better part of an hour, the car pulled into a tree-lined drive. Gravel and dirt pinged off the car's bottom and fenders as it car rambled down the narrow lane. Soon a huge, ancient house hove into a view. It was a rambling stone mansion, almost but not quite a castle. The house was surrounded by trees and high shrubbery that looked deliberately overgrown, and the grass was wildly overgrown, giving the outside of the building an abandoned look. The driver opened the door and Alfons and then Ed welcomed the gravel drive beneath their feet. It had been a painful ride. Ed walked a few feet, slowly adjusting his leg so that he could walk normally. He noticed Alfons stand still and take several deep breaths of air, watched his color return to a face that was drained almost white.

"Sorry about the ride, boys," said Strauss, not seeming at all sorry with that wry half-smile on his face, showing those yellow teeth. "That road is scheduled to be paved this summer." He gestured for them to follow him. Still a bit shaken, Ed took a quick look around—there were other cars parked in the circular drive; two large sheds could be seen off to the right, obscured by trees. Looking up, he noted that several of the tall, leaded glass windows were papered over from the inside, as if to keep out natural light.

He deliberately lagged behind Strauss in order to walk close to Alfons.

"You all right?" he asked.

Alfons nodded, but looked a bit dazed. As he blinked in the sunlight that shafted onto the stone steps at the entryway, Ed noticed that Alfons still looked ragged and pale. It had been a mistake to bring him out here, he thought, but it was too late now. They had to focus on what was to come. The door opened from the inside, and Ed braced himself before following Strauss's narrow form inside.

"Please wait here, gentlemen." Strauss tipped his head in unctuous graciousness, then walked quickly down the length of the hall and disappeared at a turn. Ed was tired of him and wish for new, less irritating company, less a public relations man and more a scientist. Ed and Alfons were left standing in the entryway, which became instantly gloomy when an unseen hand pushed the large doors closed behind them. A young man with lank brown hair dressed in a dark suit and white shirt, with a dingy yellow paper collar asked them if they'd like some water or other refreshment, in no way indicating what form this "other refreshment" might take.

"Water would be nice," Alfons rasped and Ed saw him press his fist to his mouth.

The man nodded and disappeared down the shadowy hallway. Alfons began to cough, first with restraint, but each time the cough sounded drier and deeper, and the sound of it made Ed's skin crawl.

"I should have made you stay home," Ed said, watching Alfons fretfully and anxious to have the water appear.

Alfons shook his head. "No!" he said between coughs. "I couldn't let you come here alone…how would I know where you were?" He coughed and choked again. "What if something happened to you?"

Ed felt stupid and helpless, able only to look down the hallway again, its perspective reaching into darkness, no idea where it led.

"Hey, hurry up with that water!" he shouted, not caring how rude he sounded.

Approaching footsteps signaled the return of the young man with the dirty collar. He had a glass and a whole pitcher of water, which he placed on the small table by the door.

"The Assistant Director apologizes for making you wait. He'll be up to retrieve you presently," he said. For the first time he seemed to notice Alfons was unwell. "Do you need to sit down?" This was more a statement than a question, and there was in any case no place to sit in this hallway. The boy looked annoyed.

Alfons shook his head stubbornly and frantically downed the glass of water. The young man disappeared again.

"This is ridiculous," Ed said, relieved that Alfons was finally quiet. "You told me that you were feeling better."

"I am!" Alfons hissed.

"You don't get it. This is the kind of situation that could end up getting fucked up real fast. What are we going to do if we have to make a run for it?"

Alfons bridled. "Suddenly we're in danger and it's all my fault? Seems to me they've been perfectly pleasant to us so far."

Ed sighed. "You can be really naïve sometimes—"

"Shut up," Alfons interrupted. He slammed the glass down onto the table. "I apologize for not being such an experienced international adventurer—"

"—I'm not saying—"

"Oh, excuse me, _interplanetary_ adventurer!"

Alfons was now standing at his full height, his arms crossed rather haughtily across his chest, and he looked comically serious. Ed had to stop feeling annoyed and was almost moved to laugh, at least to smile. He would have hugged him right there; he felt bad for berating him about being ill. It _wasn't_ his fault. But footsteps approached again, and a tall, trim figure emerged from the depths of the hallway, followed by a smaller, slighter one.

"Gentlemen." The two figures approached and stopped. A man, tall, slender, fair, middle aged and confident looking, dressed in a crisp casualness, dark suit, impeccably knotted tie, that suggested wealth bowed slightly toward them. The other was a woman, younger than her companion, with flashing dark eyes and olive skin, and dark hair pinned up, a suit that had a definite military cut to it, although Ed could see no national symbols anywhere.

"David Jamison." The man extended his hand and Ed and then Alfons shook it.

"An Englishman?" Ed said, surprised.

The man looked slightly offended. "Scot. And my colleague here, Galina Sukhova, is a Soviet citizen of the Russian persuasion." Sukhova dipped her head in greeting. She seemed very serious, dark eyes flashing, Ed thought he saw her bite her lip, even. She did not meet his eye, although Jamison seemed to hold his gaze more than was polite.

"We're an international operation here," said Jamison. "No national loyalties at all. We all work for the Director, all for one common cause."

"Which is what?" Alfons asked, his curiosity obviously trumping even his coughing fit. "What are you doing here?"

"You'll see." Jamison smiled again. "Our porter says that you aren't well, Mr. Heiderich. Why don't you go have a sit down in the parlor while I take Mr. Elric to see his father?"

"Why can't my father come down here?" Ed asked, suspicious. "If he knew I was here, he'd be here right now too."

Jamison dropped the solicitous tone he'd been using on Alfons. "He'll know you're here when we bring you to him."

Meanwhile, Alfons was pulling away from the arm that Sukhova had started to snake through his.

"No, thank you, I don't need to sit down."

"We'll be walking a bit through the house and down into the cellars," said Sukhova.

"That's all right. I'm fine." In one glance Ed saw Alfons looking stubborn again. He also noticed Sukhova and Jamison glance at each other as well. Well, then.

"Enough of this. Just let me see my father."

Jamison nodded, started off down the hall, and they all began to follow. It was a large house, but they were quickly to the end of the hallway and into the huge kitchens, where the porter was tending to several boiling pots that gave off an atrocious smell, causing Ed to wrinkle his nose, while Alfons coughed a bit. They followed their guides to the outside door to the kitchen and found themselves crossing a large stone courtyard facing the back section of the house. The courtyard was covered in old stone paving, cracked with weeds and grasses growing in between. There was nothing of great interest here, only a couple of rusted washtubs and a line with some linens covered with rusty stains hanging limply. As they passed one of the washtubs, Ed glanced down and instead of seeing the expected dirty water, a pile of what looked like grisly animal guts. He looked away quickly, although his heart started beating faster. When he glanced at Alfons, he noticed a sheen of sweat across his brow and a trickle of perspiration down the side of his face, which worried him. It wasn't all that hot, really. He gently touched Alfons's sleeve as the party made its way to a dark doorway.

"I'm fine," Alfons whispered hoarsely.

Ed sighed. It couldn't be more obvious that he wasn't "fine" but there was no way to address that now. Alfons was familiarly stubborn. Just what he needed; he had a bad feeling about this, and having Alfons along, obviously unwell, was just complicating things. Things could go horribly wrong. Not that he had the slightest idea what these things might be; never had he been so in the dark about something. He was fully cognizant of how careless he was being, coming here, following these people. The whole thing was shady.

But, the stone.

It all came down to that fucking stone again. He squeezed it in his left fist, inside his pocket. How much trouble it caused, again and again. The party stopped in front of the door—it was covered with peeling green paint, and had six panes of glass in the top panel, half of them cracked. Like the rest of the house, the doorway had a sinister, derelict aspect to it. Ed couldn't suppress a chill of discomfiture; perhaps this whole thing really wasn't wise. He looked up at the sky and pushed away the thought that it could be the last time, or the last time he would see it _as he was._ It was bright blue and cloudless, spotless. Bright.

Jamison put a key into the door and opened it with a creak.

"Gentlemen," he said, indicating with a sweep of his hand that they should go inside. It took a moment to adjust to the darkness. The darkness and the smell. Although they were still above ground, it already felt as if they were in a dungeon. The floor was cold stone, the walls too dark to see, a space that felt narrow and endless at once. The chilly space was filled with an odor of mustiness, damp, and a layer of something much, much worse. Ed shuddered for real this time. He looked up at Alfons, who was already shivering with the chill after being in the sunshine outdoors, and the warm, sunny courtyard.

They were led down a dark corridor, heels clacking against more stone flooring. This part of the house seemed ancient, the walls hung with tapestries so antiquated and filthy that their pictures could not longer discerned, only dull, muted colors and forms from centuries past. Ed noticed sconces in the walls made for holding torches, but the only light was a dim, familiar orange glow of gaslight at the far end of the hall. A lamp sat on the floor by another door, this one newer and made of iron. Ed could practically smell the new metals, iron and lead, of the polished door. Jamison began to pull it open, as Sukhova turned and faced him, and they exchanged a look. She then glanced at Ed, iwth an expression on her face that he immediately took to be pity. His heart sank.

"Is my father down there?" he asked. Jamison indicated solemnly that they start down the dark staircase. "Wait," Ed said, heart pounding. The stench that had lingered in the hallways was strong here, and a new layer, the smell of burning…something…ozone…flesh…_alchemy…_was making his eyes water.

Sukhova held out her hand. "Mister Heiderich, I think you should stay up here with me."

Alfons gave Ed a look that said "Stay here alone?" as if the idea were ludicrous. He shook his head. "I'm fine," he said, and firmly, too.

Ed did not want to be separated from Alfons, but at the same time, it did seem wiser that they not both go down there together, not to mention that what he was sensing indicated some very potent and dangerous alchemy.

Ed nodded at Alfons, and their eyes met. He pleaded with him silently. _Please stay up here. Please save me if…_

Alfons nodded, eyes firm and bright. Ed felt only slightly better as he followed Jamison down the stairs.

It was, basically, a dungeon, although Jamison took pains to mention that these were some of the Company's laboratories, but had originally been the manor house wine cellar and servants' quarters. The chambers they passed all had closed doors, with various signs "Keep Out" "Experiment in Progress" "Toxic Chemicals."

"This is where we do some of the more dangerous work," exposited Jamison like a grim tour guide. "We have some workrooms upstairs, as well. But, it's best to confine some of the more volatile activities to down here. When you see what your father has been working on, I'm sure you'll agree."

They were reaching the end of the corridor, and made a turn. The stench of burning-- ozone and flesh-- washed over Ed and he had to admit to himself that he was afraid. It was the same smell that had met him on the day when he and Al had transmuted their mother, the smell of loss and mistakes and terror. For a moment he considered turning and running, but he had no doubt that Jamison could just reach out and catch him by his collar. Not to mention, his father was there, somewhere. Ed felt a strange pull of familiarity, not something he expected with Hohenheim. He found himself surprised at how eager he was to see him.

They reach a turn in the corridor, and a door at the end of the narrow passage, the end of the line in this particularly depressing place. Jamison cleared his throat, turned to Ed to give him some final, meaningful look, with raised eyebrows, which did nothing to quell Ed's fears, and rapped on the door.

"Professor Hohenheim!" he said with his English-accented German. "This is Jamison, and I have a guest with me. Is it all right to enter?"

Ed waited, skin prickling, scalp crawling, to hear his father's voice. So, he wasn't dead. Part of him really had been expecting to be presented with a corpse, as a threat. He wasn't a fool, he could sense that this was the kind of Company that could keep him against his will. He had his left hand in the pocket, clutching the stone, feeling its heat against his skin. It was almost fortifying.

"Dad?" he said. "Dad—are you in there?"

The door opened, and there he was. He looked disheveled, dressed in only an untucked, stained shirt, cuffs rolled up, neck open, and filthy-looking trousers. Edward was shocked, that was so unlike him. His eyeglasses were askew on his face, as if they were broken, and he noticed, even in the dim light provided by the gaslamp at the end of the corridor, that there was a bruise on his face, and scratches on his hands. His fingernails were absolutely filthy.

"Edward….no..." His father said his name as if he regretted that he had ever been born, his voice cracking and on the edge of some agony. Clearly, seeing him here was the last thing in the world he wanted. He hadn't quite been expecting an embrace but to see his father so disordered was more than slightly disturbing.

Jamison suddenly gave Edward a not-so-gentle push into the room. Hohenheim reeled back and looked behind him frantically as if he had something to hide.

"No! I don't want for him to see this!" he protested, but it was too late, because Ed had seen it, and now it couldn't be unseen.

The remains of some monstrous creature surrounded Hohenheim, its shiny dark skin and ruby red meat mangled around bits of charred, pointed bone. It was huge, or would have been in life. There seemed to be meters of it, hacked up or eaten away, spread around the chamber. In the center of the floor was a huge array, inscribed, Ed had no doubt, in blood. The ceiling, too, hosted an array. He did not recognize either of them by sight, but from what he could see in the dimness, he had an idea as to their purpose, and they suggested Gate. Other arrays, sketches in chalk, covered the uneven walls all around them. Books and papers scattered on the floor, the few chairs present, a workbench against the far wall. Chemical distillation equipment was set up on the surface, and the fluid in most of the decanters was a familiar ruby red.

"What is this?" Ed asked, already panicked. He was beyond that, really. This was a horror that quickly evoked memories of other things he'd seen and wished he could excise from his memory forever…he couldn't imagine what this creature was, and what his father was doing with it.

"Its body fed the Gate eleven times," Hohenheim said, his voice strangely flat and defeated. "I kept it alive until the sixth time, but even after, when the blood was still fresh, the Gate opened for it."

Ed could see that the creature, whatever it had been, was now nothing but trash.

"Wh—what was it?" Ed asked, not able to take his eyes away from it.

"It was a serpent, from the Gate. It was…the Homunculus, Envy." Hohenheim's voice was faltering.

Ed closed his eyes. He had tried never to think about it, not to think about it, that Envy had been his father's child once. So…he had been experimenting on it? Even though it was a monster, that seemed cruel. Peering at Hohenheim now, he was a changed man from the last time he'd seen him, only a few weeks ago. Shadows under his redrimmed eyes, as if he hadn't been out of this dungeon for as long a time. Ed had never noticed how many wrinkles there were on his father's face, more than he had thought, etched deep around his eyes, his forehead. His hair was undone, and looked thin and straggly. If he had seen him on the street, he may not have known him.

"You shouldn't have brought him here," Hohenheim said, in his still-defeated tone, looking at Jamison.

"It wasn't my idea," said Jamison coolly.

"You see how young he is," Hohenheim said. "How could they think to get a boy involved in this horror?" He clutched at his hair with his fists. "I thought we had a deal!"

"And you thought they would honor it?" observed Jamison, sounding almost amused. "You should have known better than that."

Hohenheim suddenly came at Ed. He stepped back instinctively, but his father clutched his shoulders with his huge hands and squeezed. Hohenheim sought to hold his gaze, and after a moment's resistance, Ed let him. At this proximity, Hohenheim stank; his own degrading body, deprived of baths and perfume, plus the funk of the dungeon, working with the decomposing creature. Ed held his breath; his father smelled as if he were already dead.

"Don't do what they ask of you, Edward, whatever it is, I beg you." Hohenheim closed his eyes and a tear trickled down. "They'll make you promises but they will all be lies, believe me. You know nothing, anyway, you can't help them, you don't know enough to open the Gate, you're useless to them."

Ed understood that his father was not only making statements for Jamison's benefit, but coaching him on what he was to say if these people asked him to work for them again. And it was true, of course. He didn't know how to open a Gate. Except now he had the stone. He wondered whether he should show it to Hohenheim.

"Jamison." Hohenheim's voice was increasingly pleading, desperate, edged with misery. "My son knows nothing, he's not adept, and as you can see, he's just a boy. Please, let him go."

Jamison had his arms crossed, and he looked considerably less amused than before.

"That's not up to me, Hohenheim. You know that."

Hohenheim looked away from Jamison and intensifying his grip on Ed's shoulders, lowered his eyes to him again.

In a low voice he addressed him gently now, intimately, and Ed's heart began to flutter again. This would probably be the last time he would see him, he realized. There was no way Hohenheim was going to last long here, doing this, being kept like this. He felt the loss before it happened, it seemed like he was already gone. This frantic, desperate, filthy man wasn't the father he had come to know over the past year that they had spent together on this side of the Gate. For all his many faults and failures—which Ed could never truly forgive—Hohenheim had made good on some of them, had truly tried.

"How are you doing? Have you been all right?"

"Yeah, I'm okay," Ed said, embarrassed that his father was asking him how he was, given the circumstance he was in himself.

"Feeling well, everything working all right?" his father asked.

Ed nodded sharply. "Don't worry about me. We have to get you out of here."  
Hohenheim lowered his voice further. "No. It's too late for me." He leaned in and began to whisper in Ed's ear. Ed winced at his father's fetid breath, feeling ashamed for it. "I've opened the Gate too many times. The next time will be my last, but I'll make sure _they_ can't get to it."  
"What are they trying to do?"

"They found the serpent, and they know about the stone. They want more, to make weapons of all kinds from it. They think that they can use it as a core for a bomb."

Ed's eyes widened. "A bomb?" His thoughts raced back to a sight he'd seen while in the Gate many years ago. A huge explosion, a cloud the shape of a mushroom, a tremendous canopy of destruction…the deaths that would yield.

But he understood now.

"I have to stop this," he said. "Somehow—"

Hohenheim squeezed yet harder, Ed winced but did not pull away.

"Yes, you must," Hohenheim said. "But not today. Trust me, you have to get out of here. Now." He stood up to his full height and released his hands. Ed looked up at him, Hohenheim looked down. It was ever thus, even grown up, he was still as a child next to his father, the towering alchemist. His father, who had carried him on his shoulders when he was just a tiny child, who had carried him in his arms when he had come through the Gate, helpless, he who had never lost patience and faith in him, Edward.

Ed had forgiven him, mostly.

"Dad, tell me…"

Hohenheim leaned forward again, and Ed could see that he had begun to cry.

"Did you make this stone?" He pulled it from his pocket, held it out. Hohenheim looked at it.

"Yes."

Ed swallowed. "And who…how many people died for it? How many lives did you use?"

Hohenheim lowered his gaze.

"One hundred and eighty residents of an insane asylum….the Company bought them all, brought them here, I did it here, right here, two weeks ago…" Hohenheim swept his arm across the room.

"But how…?" Ed still did not understand how the alchemy worked here, how he could activate the circles he had drawn.

"Don't you understand? The serpent, its blood. We bled it hundreds of times, it died by a thousand cuts…it thrashed a lot the first few days, and pushed its flesh through the chains. The guards pushed nails into it, tortured it. I listened to its screams for days on end. I was relieved when it finally died. When _he_ died."

Hohenheim looked broken, beaten. He turned around, disoriented. He rolled up his tattered sleeve further and showed his arm to Ed. The flesh was so degraded Ed could see the glistening of muscle where the skin had been eaten away, and even a white flash of bone. The wounds were edged in black, rot.

"The proximity of the Gate energy has accelerated the deterioration of this body. They know this, and they are trying to squeeze every last drop out of me."

"Why don't you stop if you're dying anyway?" Ed asked, suddenly alarmed and challenging. Isn't that what _he_ would have done?

"Because I wanted to open the Gate, for you. They promised me my freedom. I thought I could figure a way and then get away from them, but they watch me night and day."

Ed was horrified. "I wouldn't want you to kill a bunch of people to make stones, just for me."

Hohenheim nodded and even smiled. "I knew you'd say that. But your life _is_ worth more to me that a hundred and eighty insane people, or the homeless wretches they swept in here last week so I could make another stone. You mean more to me that that beast—" here he glanced at the carcass again—"more than anything else in this world."

"That's crazy, Dad," Ed said, shaking his head.

Hohenheim gave a bitter laugh. "You'll see when you have children some day…" He laughed again, seemingly mad. "You're all that's left of me now…"

Ed thought about the chance he blew back in Laboratory 5 to trade dozens of lives to restore his brother, how close he'd come…he kind of understood. Still, the stone he now held in his hand seemed to have an even more sickening power over him. It was _his_.

"And I hope you will…" Hohenheim mused on, apparently talking to himself now. "You will live, that's all I want. Now get away from here."

Ed looked at Jamison, still standing before the door with his arms crossed. Jamison tipped his head to the side.

"If you've seen enough," he said. "Certainly."

Ed turned back to Hohenheim. They stood facing each other, and once again, Ed felt himself a child in the presence of this towering, mysterious man. This man who had been a phantom and a puzzle, and a betraying monster for most of Ed's life. Ed held out his left hand with the grimy white glove, and his father took it with his.

"Thank you," Ed said. Hohenheim looked so, so sad just then, the tears still silently trickling down a face that now seemed as old as the man claimed to be; Ed let himself be pulled into a quick embrace, then left the room quickly, pushing Jamison aside roughly, stalked down the corridor, never looking back.

Death had its fingers around his neck. It had happened so quickly he had no time to wonder what was coming at him. Sukhova had led him to a small, dark parlour. He had sat down on the chair she had indicated, and clouds of dust had spread up around him. No one had sat here for some time, apparently. It had started the coughing again, and before he knew it, he was gasping for air. Sukhova had pressed a handkerchief into his hands and it was stained with blood within moments. He panicked—for the moment he could hardly recall where he was or what he was doing, or whose voice this was asking him what he needed. Oxygen was getting hard to come by, and he was so tired, if he could just stop coughing, lie down, sleep….he'd be happy, that's all he wanted.

Still the coughing went on, his head began to ache horribly as each cough racked his neck, his head, his brain jostled in its fluids, his lungs full of needles, making him wish he could reach down his own throat and pull them out. The woman was hovering about him, then he heard her footsteps going away, and thought, She's leaving me here to die alone…where is Edward?

Sukhova gone, he tried to get his breath, hoping she was going to get help, but what help would there be here, wherever this was? The stench of the house had overwhelmed him, filled his lungs, stung his eyes, made his nose run. He covered his face with the handkerchief, and as the coughing subsided, he took stock of how much blood he had expectorated. It had felt like more, like buckets, but it was just a bit really, staining the white handkerchief. His head ached and felt sticky, and when he felt his forehead and hair, they were damp, as were his eyes. He took in a shuddering breath and stood up shakily. His knees trembled as he took a step, but he made it to the doorway and then held on to it for dear life. Breathe, breathe, he told himself. Better, thank God. Perhaps if he went outside….

He looked down the dark corridor, still surprised by his surroundings, still lightheaded and wondering what had brought him here. Then, footsteps, that woman, Sukhova. She hurried, and looked worried as she approached.

"They're looking for you," she said.

"Who? Who's looking for me?"

Footsteps. Sukhova shook her head. "Come with me." She took his arm insistently and started walking him down the hall, but footsteps from behind stopped them in their tracks.

"There he is." It was a familiar voice. Strauss. "It's not quite time for you to leave, Mister Heiderich. That won't do, you need a lie down, don't you."

It wasn't really framed as a question, but Alfons was too weak to argue.

It was a bedroom on the second floor of the house. Richly fitted out in the style of two or even three centuries ago, velvet curtained canopied bed, tapestries covered the walls, everything rich woven fabrics and brocades of centuries past, of wealth and privilege. Yet there was nothing luxuriant about being pressed down onto that bed by Strauss, met by an ancient, sagging mattress with no give, and, again, dusty coverlets and curtain sending puffs of stale dust into his face. He was so afraid of coughing again that he tried not to breathe in. Strauss pushed him down and held him there easily, while Sukhova came over and began to tie his hands together behind his back, and they both pushed him onto his side.

"What—what're you---" He was at a loss, total panic, and so puzzled. Perhaps he was just imagining this, having just been deprived of oxygen. He was just imagining this, that's what it was. His chest and head still hurt dreadfully. If only he could pass out deeply enough…and wake up in his own bed, with Edward beside him. He closed his eyes but was jerked up roughly by his shirt.

"Don't pass out yet, Heiderich. We need you awake." Strauss released him and started meticulously removing his jacket, then began to roll up his sleeves. "This is a horrible business, you know. Don't think I'm enjoying this. Poor lad." He looked at Sukhova, and Alfons just watched in horror as she crossed her arms and averted her eyes, looking angry and a little scared. What were they going to do with him?

What was this nightmare, really? Perhaps he had died and gone to hell. It seemed entirely possible.

He looked up at the canopy above him and tried to calm his heart, beating irregularly. He tried to keep his head raised to keep from coughing, until Sukhova noticed and gently placed a pillow there. He tried to smile gratefully at her but she only frowned.

There was some movement, and it sounded like more people had entered the room, although his vision was already clouded, his head swimming, splitting open with pain.

And then he heard his voice.

"Alfons!" Ed tried to bolt toward the bed, but was held back by the young man who had originally met them at the door. The porter was wiry and a lot stronger than he looked. Ed struggled to pull away from him. From where he stood, Alfons was lying on the bed in a strange position, his face turned toward him, but his eyelids were swollen and he looked half dead.

"What have you done to him?" Panicked, Ed kicked his captor in the shin and again tried to pull free.

Strauss stood by the bed in his rolled-up shirtsleeves, calmly smoking a cigarette. His little, weedy mustache, his smug expression, everything about him made Ed want to lunge at him and pound him down.

"Stay here with us, Edward, and we'll take good care of Mr. Heiderich here."

"You have him tied up?" Ed gasped when he realized why Alfons's hands were behind and under his back. "Let him go, dammit! Come on, this isn't fair, this has nothing to do with him! Just deal with me, and let him go!"

"Oh, we plan to deal with you. We thought it might be useful to have a pawn, though." Strauss looked down at Alfons, who was barely moving.

Ed felt a rush of panic. "Can't you see that he's sick?" he said. He couldn't excise the pleading from his voice if he tried. "Let him go."

Strauss found an ashtray on the small table beside the bed and took a deliberately long time to put his cigarette out. His air of manufactured calm was maddening.

"You stay here and work with us, continue your father's work to our satisfaction, we let him go," said Strauss.

"No deal," Ed said through clenched teeth. "He needs to go now. Besides, I don't know anything about what Hohenheim's been doing. I can't do alchemy, I don't know shit. Really." The pleading was coming back. "You have to believe me, I can't help you."

"You're lying," said Strauss in a sing-song voice. He began to pace. "I know you are adept at alchemy. How? I went through your papers at the University laboratory. I saw your chemistry notes, in which you were clearly trying to apply alchemical principles in the breakdown and reconstitution of matter. We're not fools, we've been watching you for months."

"I really don't know anything about what he's doing with the Gate…you don't understand, I've failed every time I've tried to use alchemy here—"

"We have philosophers stones, now…you have one in your pocket. Really, Edward, this feeble pleading is beneath you."

Ed looked over at Alfons. His face was now turned toward him, his eyes open at half-mast. They still looked glassy, and his face was covered with a sheen of sweat, and he was white as a sheet. If he didn't get him out of here soon…

Ed held his hands up, palms out, before him. "All right…listen, I have to get Alfons to hospital, then I'll come back here and try to get my dad to get me up to speed."

Strauss shook his head. "We don't have time for that. Your father, as you've seen, is on his last legs. It's maybe a matter of days…"

"It's a matter of days for him too!" Ed cried frantically, pointing at Alfons, "If you don't let me take him to the hospital. He's only seventeen---"

Strauss looked down at Alfons again. He gestured to the boy holding Ed, who let him go, and the two of them went to the bed, each taking an arm, and lifted Alfons up. He looked around blearily. For a moment, Ed was beginning to feel relief. They were going to let him take Alfons, they could get the hell out of here…

Instead, the two men dragged Alfons to the door of the bathroom. Ed bolted behind them. A spacious room covered with tiny white tiles, a huge bathtub, already filled with water….again Ed lunged forward.

"No—what are you doing?" It was only a moment before the two men had Alfons at the edge of the tub, pushed him down on his knees, and the porter's hand was gripping Alfons's hair.

Ed looked wildly around for the woman but she was gone. No help from that quarter, then.

"Will you stay?"

Ed quailed. He'd have to say yes—

"Not fast enough!" The porter pushed Alfons's head into the water with no resistance.

"STOP!" Ed screamed. He saw Alfons begin to struggle, but weakly. "STOP IT! I'll stay, I'll fucking stay, stop it!"

The boy looked up at Strauss first, who nodded, and then he pulled Alfons's head back, too far. Alfons spluttered and gasped for air, then vomited into the tub. It was almost all blood, and it began to stain the water red.

Strauss reached for a towel and tossed it over Alfons's head, while the porter undid his tied hands. Alfons was already on the floor, still retching, a trail of red coming from his mouth. He was reaching wildly at nothing, as if he couldn't see. Ed threw himself down and clasped his hands, feeling such panic he could barely breathe himself. This situation was so far out of his control, he felt like he was drowning too.

"I'm here, it's all right…"

And then there was a huge boom, the very floor and walls shook, and plaster began to rain down on them. It didn't stop, only grew louder and more violent, like an earthquake. Ed heard glass shattering. It felt as if the building was coming down around them. Ed flattened himself onto the floor, still grabbing at Alfons's hands. The others in the room hit the deck, too, and Ed squeezed his eyes tight, waiting for it to stop. The shaking turned to trembling, and then the house shuddered. Walls and hinges creaked, and he waited for everything to just fall…but it didn't.

Then it was quiet, aside from some residual creaking. Ed sniffed the air and knew the smell—ozone. A transmutation had rocked the building. His next thought was Hohenheim, and What has he done? But as Strauss and his henchman picked themselves off the floor dazedly, Ed still had to attend to Alfons. A bit of blood was trickling out of his nose, and his mouth, and his eyes looked glazed over, staring, half open. Ed was alarmed as he bent over him, pushing the wet hair away from his face.

"Alfons? Are you all right? Say something," he said fervently into his ear. He didn't care that he was so close, that he was sweeping his hand across Alfons's cheek with these other people present. He'd pay for that later, but now all he cared about was making sure he was all right. He slapped Alfons's cheek lightly, then harder, until Alfons spluttered and blinked. Ed struggled to help him sit up—he was so limp. Alfons sat up but slumped over, crossing his legs beneath him, and began to cough again.

Ed patted his back, grabbed a soiled towel off the floor and put it around Alfons's neck.

"What the fuck was that, an earthquake?" he heard the porter say to Strauss. He sounded suitably terrified.

Strauss grunted. "I don't know. I don't think it was natural, it came from downstairs. We should go see."

"What about them?" said the boy, and Ed felt the boy's boot dig into his hip.

"Look at the state of Heiderich, he's not going anywhere. Help get him onto the bed and we'll go down."

Ed grudgingly let the person who had put Alfons in his current state help him get him from the bathroom to the bed. Ed piled pillows behind Alfons's head and sat down next to him with the towel, feeling helpless as Alfons coughed and retched into it. He felt a hollow, sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach; he'd never seen Alfons seem so sick before. Now he could believe that he might be dying, and that was just too much miserable news for one single day.

"Just, talk to me when you can, all right?" Ed pleaded, as Alfons struggled to regulate his labored breath. He kept trying to speak but no sound came out, then only a ragged gasp or wheeze, but Ed was hopeful that things would improve. He'd almost been drowned, for fuck's sake. While he was angry as hell about that, right now he was more worried than anything. More worried than scared about what was going to happen to them in this horrible house, about what had happened downstairs with Hohenheim. He couldn't leave Alfons in this state, but he couldn't bear to just sit there, either, while he heard running and pattering around downstairs, knowing something important had happened.

He put his ear against Alfons's chest and heard the shuddering, uneven breaths, the heart beating too fast. In a moment, Alfons's fingers were dug into his hair, nails strafing his scalp. Ed's heart sank; even that pressure against his chest was impeding his breathing. Alfons was in pain, and he couldn't do anything. He rose up quickly and caught Alfons's eyes, which looked frantic and afraid, hurt and scared. He grabbed Alfons's hand with his and squeezed. Alfons squeezed back, a bit feebly.

"It's all right, squeeze as hard as you want," Ed said. "Does it hurt?"

Alfons nodded slightly, closed his eyes.

"Fuck, I'm so sorry I brought you here," Ed said. "I didn't know it was going to get crazy like this…but maybe I should have."

Alfons shook his head and closed his eyes again.

"…s'not your fault," he whispered hoarsely. "I wouldn't have let you…"

Ed smiled in spite of himself. "Some bodyguard," he said.

"Don't tease me," Alfons rasped, a flicker of a smile crossing his lips.

"Did you see Strauss on the floor? He almost grabbed _my_ hand when the place was shaking, he was shitting himself!"

Again Alfons began to smile, and gave a hoarse chuckle. "Bastard, don't make me laugh right now…"

"All right, sorry." Ed squeezed his hand again but he was feeling more relieved. Alfons was breathing more easily now; his chest was still rising and falling, maybe more dramatically than was normal, but it was more even now, less noisy…he didn't seem like he was dying anymore, and some of the panic in Ed's heart stilled. He could stomach the idea of the serpent, his father in the basement, even whatever his father had probably just done…any of it more than losing Alfons. Was it the idea of losing him here, losing him now, or losing him ever that disturbed him so deeply?

"Do you think you'll be able to get up soon?" Ed asked anxiously. "I have no idea what they're doing down there, but my dad said to get out of here as soon as possible."

Alfons looked at him, a bit sadly.

"I'm stuck here for now," he said, his voice still wrecked. "I'm pretty sure you don't share my perception that the room is spinning, huh?"

Ed chewed his lip. "If I can get you downstairs, I can steal one of the cars outside. It's not like we'd have to walk far."

Alfons lifted his arm and let his hand fall over his eyes. "I'll be better soon, I think…I just need to rest for a bit. It's dark out…it must be late…"

Ed noticed that while he had wiped the blood away from the corner of Alfons's mouth, it had begun to trickle a bit from his nose again. He picked up the towel and daubed it away, gently, but his heart hadn't felt so heavy in a long time. It reminded him of how it had been with his mother, back then…transported him there, she'd been the same, white and clammy and the blood from the nose. It meant nothing good.

He thought of his silly promise, made just a day ago, that he wouldn't let Alfons die. But who was he to say that? He didn't have any powers, not here, not even at home, to keep someone who was sick from dying. It was one of those inevitable characteristics of life's horrors. Still, the stone….

He removed it from his pocket and held it in his right hand, felt it become warm, almost hot against his skin.

"Here," he said, gently opening Alfons's free hand and placing the stone on his palm. "Just hold it. Maybe it'll help."

Alfons snorted gently but closed his fist around the stone and brought it to rest on his chest. Within a minute, he had fallen into a deep, exhausted sleep, but was breathing easily enough for Ed to leave the room and confront whatever it was that had happened downstairs.

Not in the mood to be cautious, Ed pounded downstairs and traced his way back through the hallways, through the abandoned kitchen—where the pots were still inexplicably boiling away—and across the now-dark courtyard. The door to the back section of the house and the cellars was now flung open, as if nobody cared who came in. Heart pounding, Ed entered, and made his way down the dank hallway towards the door to the cellar. The smell of alchemy was so strong now it almost overtook him, with memories associated with alchemy, bad memories. It smelled like mistakes and stupidity and arrogance and it was all around him. Some of the lanterns hanging in the hallways had fallen to the floor and smashed, and it was darker than ever. He couldn't even see the door to the cellars until he was quite close, but as he approached he saw that it was open too, only askew and slightly bent off its hinges. He felt certain that the shaking of the house had had its genesis down here.

Voices, some shouting. It seemed that there were a lot more people down there than he had originally thought. The house had seemed so quiet and yet it sounded like there were dozens of people down there, voices raised and shouting at eachother. He recognized the tone of command, of someone saying, "You go!" and some scuffling. He took the steps, holding tight to the banister to keep from slipping in the dark. More light had been lost down here, too, and all he could see was the glow of some lanterns further down into the recesses of the cellar. Keeping the fingertips of his left hand against the wall as he went, he followed the corridor down to the end, knowing—but not wanting to know—that the source of all this commotion would be around that last bend, in the last room, where his father was working.

There weren't dozens of people at all, but still, about ten, crowded near the doorway when he approached. There was a dim light coming from the room, from what he could see over the bodies crowded in the entrance.

"Let me through!" Ed began to push through the bottleneck. Whatever was in there, these people wanted to be able to see it, but not be too close.

"It's the son!" said a voice, and there were murmurs, and the crowd separated to let him through. Suddenly everyone was silent, as if waiting to see what he would make of what he saw.

The Gate. It was there, in this cellar, just standing there, its dark door touching the ceiling. Ed remember it as being much larger, but he supposed it would fit in whatever space it was summoned to. Now it just fit, but although it was only about twelve feet high, it was its weight that made an impression, ponderous, it looked as if it were made of the densest, darkest metal conceivable. Its door was shut tight and no light came from it.

Everyone, including Ed, just stood now, silently watching it just be.

Then someone spoke. "It's never been shut before like that. Who would dare to open it?"

Ed felt a shove from behind. He looked over his shoulder: Jamison.

"You open it, boy. Go ahead."

"No!" The protestation seemed so creaky and ancient, pried from the lips of a dead man. It was Hohenheim, collapsed on the floor beside the Gate. He was on his hands and knees, and Ed could see even in the dim light that blood ran from his nose and mouth. His hands were shocking to see, clawlike, skeletal, and Ed's eyes widened as he tried to take in the sight. He went closer, although he was terrified, and saw, before his father even raised his head, that his flesh was nearly gone. His hair hung around his face, shielding him, Ed knew, from seeing the worst.

"Don't come closer, Edward!" Hohenheim commanded weakly. "Don't look. Don't open the Gate, don't…"

Ed spun around to face Jamison…and the others. He squinted in the dim light. There was Ostermann, finally, and Strauss, the small shape of Sukhova, all of them cowering by the doorway. He was also surprised to see Peters, before he remembered…Peters looked positively petrified, frozen against the farthest wall. Other people he didn't know.

"Somebody's going!" roared Jamison. "This is the last time we're getting this gate open so we've got to make the best use of it! Look at Hohenheim, he's through."

"You're insane!" Ed shouted. "What do you think you're doing? You have no idea what's in there, don't open it!" He turned to Hohenheim, but he had already collapsed entirely onto the floor. "You KILLED him!"

Jamison came forward a bit, but not all the way. "He knew what he was doing," he said, looking slightly frantic. "Or we thought he did. What do you know about it? How long will it stay here? Somebody open it, now!" He advanced at Ed, but Ed stepped back and moved as far away from the Gate as he could. He stood and looked at it. He could go through. That certainly made more sense than letting any of these idiots go through it. But, he had no control over what would happen. He could already feel the Gate's hands upon him. They'd tear him apart, as they liked to do every time he went through there.

Still, it was calling to him. The room was silent now, but for the breathing of the others, and Ed could almost hear it in his head. Come in, come in.

It was reaching for him. His heart began to pound in his head as he resisted it.

Come, it beckoned him, called him, in his mind's eye he could see the bright green grass, the azure blue skies of Amestris, he could see his brother's face and the voice telling him to come now was his, was Al's, and it was Al has he had known him before, before everything had happened, Al his little brother with the soft hair and the spirited laugh, that one, the real thing. He was there, on the other side.

Still, he thought of Alfons, upstairs somewhere, sick and afraid and waiting for him. If he disappeared now…

"Brother!" He heard it, Al's voice, as clear as day.

The Gate stood, the door between worlds, in the basement, dark and sinister, black twisted iron. He took a step forward, and now he heard the other voices in the room but they were as if filtered through a wall of water.

"Don't let him go alone!" he heard someone shout. "He'll close it for good!"

"Edward, don't!" That was Hohenheim. He looked to the floor to his right, and his father's now skeletal hand was reaching toward him, too. "Not this way…Edward, I—"

Suddenly he was shoved from the side. He fell over onto the stone floor, stopping himself with his artificial arm. It jarred his shoulder painfully enough to break the spell the Gate's pull had cast on him. The voices were loud now.

"Edward…" It was Hohenheim, still gasping. Ed scooted closer to him.

"Dad, what—"

"It's…whoever goes in won't get to our world, I made certain of that…" Hohenheim panted and took a breath. Ed could barely look at his face; it almost resembled a mummy, the flesh blackened and cracking, the lips gone. "It's a trap, to scare them into stopping. Don't go in." He opened his mouth as if to speak more, but it was obviously getting more difficult for him to get his mummifying body to perform human functions.

Ed came a bit closer, closed his eyes as he spoke, not wanting to see the monstrous creature his father had become.

"Edward, listen to me. You can't control the Gate, you can't pass through it again, I'm telling you…not without damaging both worlds…please….stop them."

Ed felt a boot in his ribs and looked up to see Jamison towering above him.

"Come on, kid, we're sending someone in. Since you'll be continuing your father's work, you should watch this."

Someone had pushed Peters forward.

"Not him!" snapped Jamison. "He's a skilled chemist, we need him." He paused a moment, looking around. "That one, send him in." He had pointed at the porter, the one who had shoved Alfons's head into the bathwater. Ed thought for a split second that if they were going to send anyone, it might as well be him.

Ed got to his knees and started to stand. He couldn't just sit by while they murdered him, though. "Stop it! He'll be killed! There's no way—"

"Shut up!" said Jamison. He gestured to the young man, whose eyes were now wide with terror. "Come on you. Open the Gate."

Someone shoved the guy and he staggered forward, took shaky steps toward the Gate.

"Go on," urged Jamison.

He reached for the solid door. There was no handle, but somehow it seemed to make sense that once someone touched it…it swung outwards, slowly, with a ponderous creak. Yellow light streamed into the cellar, causing Ed to squint to avoid its burning glare. Others threw their arms over their eyes. The young man hesitated, but, finally, took a step, then another, until his dark silhouette was seen framed in the doorway full of burning yellow light. The door shut behind him.

Ed half expected the Gate to disappear now—why wouldn't it?—but it stayed there. The group began to murmur. What's going to happen? Will this thing just stay here now? Is it safe? Ed rose to his feet and then bent over his father's form. The smell of decay had given way to dust. There was nothing left but a pile of bones and his clothes.

Hohenheim was dead. Ed did not quite know how to process this—it felt as if a safety net had been removed from beneath him. Just knowing that Hohenheim had been alive in this world was enough, even when he wasn't with him. Now, he was alone.

He thought of Alfons, upstairs, and wanted more than anything to run up and get him, and to leave here.

"Monsters," he said, mostly to himself, as he beheld what was left of his father. They had done it, had forced him. The same fate awaited him if he didn't get away.

He turned to take on Jamison, but something interrupted him. The Gate swung open again, this time with much less light, and ejected something into the room. Before they could even see what it was, it swung shut again and with a terrible rumble that shook the foundations of the house again, so that dirt and dust showered down from the ceiling, and it disappeared. Where it once had been, it now was not.

Ed stood, blinking at its absence, but in a moment everyone had crowded around the thing that had come out of the Gate.

It was the young man who had gone in. The Gate had turned him inside out, literally. Ed looked away from the mess.

"That did not go well," Jamison observed.

They all stood around, everyone a bit shocked and depleted. Two bodies on the floor had caused at least two of the men in the party to swoon to the floor. Ed stood near Hohenheim's remains, at a loss.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Sukhova. Her eyes were sad, but he couldn't say for what. Did she feel bad about what had happened that day, or just disappointed?

"I've been asked to take you upstairs," she said, her voice low and serious, and if Ed wasn't mistaken, a bit sorry.

"As a prisoner?" he asked sharply.

She looked away. "Just come with me," she said. "They know you won't leave your friend here."

"My father's remains," he said plainly.

"They'll be buried," she said. "I'll make sure."

Ed was spent. There wasn't much fight left in him tonight. He nodded and followed her. Before opening the door to the room upstairs, she said, "Don't bother trying to get away. They're guarding this room, and the house."

Ed took this in and tried to read Sukhova; she looked resigned and anxious.

"What the hell are you doing here, helping these people?" he said.

She fingered her throat and her eyes flashed. "I have my reasons. You'd do best to find yours. Goodnight."

Back up in the red, dusty room, Ed went to open the windows before taking off his jacket and crawling into the bed beside Alfons. Alfons hadn't even undressed yet, so Ed worked his damp shirt open and pressed his head to his chest, causing Alfons stirred and woke slowly.

His eyes opened, finally, and Ed burrowed into his side. He felt Alfons lift his prosthetic arm off his chest and lower it again.

"Hey," he said, his voice nearly back to its old timbre and tone. "Why haven't you taken this off?"

"We might have to make a run for it," Ed murmured into his shoulder.

"I was afraid you might say that," Alfons said. He sounded more lucid now, and Ed could feel that he was no longer as limp and exhausted as he had been, to his great relief. "So…do I really want to know what was down there?"

Ed buried his head in the space between Alfons's neck and shoulder.

"No." He raised his face and faced his lover in the room that was dark save for the single lamp on the bedside table. "Alfons…Hohenheim…my father's dead."

Alfons's eyes widened at the news and he gasped as he squeezed Edward. "Oh my God! So they lied--?"

"No," said Ed, feeling his jaw set in anger. "They didn't lie. He was alive when I first went down there…that explosion we heard, that rocked the house, that was Hohenheim summoning a Gate---a portal to our world…"

Ed stopped to look at Alfons, and how he was taking this news. In retrospect, it might have been helpful for him to have been down in the cellar to see the Gate, to understand what it was and what they were dealing with. What if he still refused to believe him? But there was nothing about his face that suggested doubt. Awe, maybe, in that his eyes were still the widest he'd ever seen them, and his lips were perpetually apart, but that was awe, not doubt.

"So, they were making him summon a Gate, repeatedly, trying to find a safe way to get through…but doing it so many times finally killed him."

"You saw this?"

Ed nodded.

"I'm so sorry," Alfons said, and he brushed Ed's cheek with the backs of his long slender fingers. "So these guys…"

"They're dangerous…they have just enough power to fuck with stuff they don't know how to control…it's bad." Ed paused for a moment to gather his thoughts about just how much he hated them. "I'm gonna kill someone for what they did to him…and to you. Just, I thought you should know that."

"I don't want you to kill anyone, Edward," Alfons said quietly. He was staring up at the ceiling now, and his voice was suddenly detached and far away.

"It doesn't matter," Ed said. "That guy who held you down is dead anyway. They pushed him into going into the Gate and…it turned him inside out."

Alfons now seemed detached, distracted, as he looked up at the canopy of red velvet above them. He still held his hand against Ed's cheek, but it seemed as if he was absent somehow.

"Hey," Ed said quietly. "Is this too much…? I feel terrible about getting you involved in this, for bringing you here."

"You didn't bring me here," said Alfons, but his voice was still flat, almost dream-like. "I came by my own free will. It's funny, but I feel like I dreamed this place, some time, in the past, like I've been here before, like I've always been meant to come here, isn't that strange?"

Ed felt a surge of worry and placed his hand on Alfons's brow. It was cool but damp again.

Alfons heard Edward's voice like it was speaking to him through a dream. What was real, anyway? Not this world, not this unreal day. Not since he had been given his death sentence did anything, anywhere, seem real, substantial, real.

"I've told you some things before…and you never believed me. Not really, I know you didn't," he said. "So why are you taking all this in stride all of a sudden?"

"I guess," began Alfons, pushing himself up on his elbows and turning to meet Ed's gaze face-on, despite a wave of dizziness. "The thing is…since I've been ill…I've been thinking, and I feel more open to things, my mind is open, I mean. I feel that a lot of things are possible that I didn't believe in before. I feel like my eyes have been opened, to a lot of things."

Edward looked skeptical. "Like what? Like God?"

Alfons paused as he cast about for ways to explain what he felt. "Maybe, a bit, with God and Heaven and all that…just because, you know, I wish it were true." Alfons tried to offset his slight embarrassment at that admission with a smile.

Edward tilted his head to the side and smiled himself, albeit a little sadly. "Yeah, sometimes I wish it were too. I bet everyone does."

"But you don't think it is, do you?" said Alfons. "Because you've seen that Gate thing?"

"Yeah," Edward said. "The Gate. I think it is what people here think God and heaven are. But it isn't like that, it isn't like how people want it to be." Suddenly he shook his head violently as if trying to rid himself of a thought. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be saying this to you."

"No, you should," Alfons said. "I want to hear what you really think, not what you think I want to hear."

Edward finally turned back to look at him. "But…I want to tell you what you want to hear," he said, looking so sweet and bewildered with his own honesty that Alfons had to laugh. "What did I say? Why is that funny?"

Alfons drew Edward's hand back toward himself and pressed it to his lips. When he looked up at Edward, he was regarding him with a strange, wide-eyed look on his face, and he seemed like he was just a child, overwhelmed, as Alfons was himself, with the events of the day.

Edward collapsed down onto his back and Alfons saw him squeeze his eyes shut.

"I can't believe he's gone…We have to get the fuck out of here. That's the first thing."

Alfons held out his hand over Edward's chest, opening his palm, ready to relinquish the stone again.

"We have this. Does that help?"

Edward didn't take it, only looked at it with narrowed eyes.

"I wish I'd never even heard of that fucking thing," he said bitterly.

Alfons put his arm around Edward and squeezed protectively with his minimized strength. "It's followed you across time and space," Alfons supplied helpfully. "You have to do something about it."

"Those idiots down there don't know what they're messing with. My father—" Alfons heard Edward's voice catch and then he took a steadying breath. "My father was trying to stop them by summoning unstable Gates, to make them give up on the idea. Now they're going to want me to keep doing it. I don't know if what they saw today scared them off or not."

Alfons could not quite picture this Gate, although it had now moved from the realm of the Mythical to that of the Real. He still couldn't stop picturing the pearly gates of heaven, but he was pretty sure that wasn't what had spit out a mangled corpse in the cellars.

What kind of insane business was he caught up in now? It was frightening but truth be told, Alfons was more than a little aroused by the menace and danger that he had suddenly fallen into. It certainly was more exciting than his previously anticipated plans: to spend the next few months of what might be the rest of his life in bed, or in hospital. Not to mention, Edward was here, and this all came along with him…it was worth it, he told himself, it was. It would be. Whatever happened.

Lying next to him in the moonlit room, Edward was obviously deep in thought, chewing his lip and scheming, and Alfons could smell sweat and dust, and dirty clothing, and his arousal was starting to shock himself. He curled his toes and flexed his feet, tried to take deep breaths but still felt that laceration in his lungs. I'm dying, there's no way around that, he thought, and the dust in the room threatened to choke him. If his mother could see him now, practical Gretchen with her starchy apron and that chiding voice, and the way she smelled of secret liquor every night since the day they had learned that his father had died, Gretchen in the arms of that seedy Linker, who had wanted Alfons gone from the day he had proposed to his mother. Gretchen wrote him letters now and then, but she truly had no idea what he was up to. If she only knew---this grand house, carnage in the cellar, his beautiful lover, the boy from another world with the long blond hair….Alfons was starting to fall asleep and rolled over onto his side, pressing his fist—still holding the stone—between his legs where he was starting, against the odds of exhaustion and sickness—to get hard.

He actually felt—pleasant, given the circumstance it was rather strange. He was lightheaded, sleepy, almost floating. Suddenly there was a light smack against his cheek, Edward's hand, then under his chin, thumb tracing his parted lips.

"If this was my last night on earth…" Alfons began drowsily "…this is exactly how I would want to spend it…"

"You are daft, you're half dreaming," said Edward softly, and, Alfons thought, fondly. Then theirs lips brushed, and Alfons heard himself whimper—how he hated when he did that—and pressed himself against Edward. He didn't feel like opening his eyes but Edward's body was compelling enough just by feel. The combination of soft and hard in surprising places, never failed to surprise Alfons at least. "Hey, I don't want to get you coughing again….not here," Edward said softly still but Alfons was not in the mood to stop, and pushed his knee hard into Edward's crotch, making him suppress a squeak.

Alfons nuzzled Edward's neck and received a rather aggressive kiss on the mouth in response, sudden urgency from Edward, panting. When Edward's cheek brushed against his, Alfons noticed that it was damp, but didn't want to talk anymore. What was there to say? The day had been too much, the night was theirs for now. They undressed without a word, their clothes sliding to the floor to become one with the dust.

It was hot in the room, even with the windows open and the lace curtains fluttering like ghosts into the dreary room whenever Alfons flicked open his eyes. Even the moonlight seemed too bright and he always quickly closed them, preferring instead to be blind tonight, to forget where they were, the sinister windows in the sinister house, the cellar and its horrid secrets beneath them. Edward climbed on top of him, squeezing his hips with his mismatched knees. It wasn't often they made love with Edward sporting four limbs, usually that seemed uncomfortable, and Alfons preferred soft, irregular Edward, but tonight was definitely different. Edward sat astride him and then bent over, fingers, even the false, clumsy ones, raking his sides, then lips and tongue against his nipples, teeth across them—horrible and amazing at once—and then sucking gently, first the left, then the right. This made Alfons draw up his knees so that he nearly knocked Edward forward, and then relax them again as his body uncoiled. When he opened his eyes, there was Edward, sitting on top of him, looking down, eyes shining darkly in the dark, looking at a point beyond beyond, inscrutable, lips a bit pouty, face smudged with soot.

Alfons loved him absolutely, at that moment he knew. He would trust him to the ends of the earth, and let him take him anywhere, he'd even follow him into that dreaded cellar and through the storied Gate and into another world. Into hell, if he had to.

"Hey, are you too tired to…?" Edward asked him.

"No," Alfons said, thinking that if this were his last night on earth, he wasn't going to waste it sleeping. Not yet, anyway. He reached out for Edward's left hand, laced his fingers with his. "I want you to."

Edward nodded solemnly as if he had just been invited to tea with the Queen of England. They didn't have anything with them to facilitate a proper communion, so Edward began to get busy by kissing his way down Alfons's back, then pressed himself between Alfons's thighs. It wasn't the same, but it felt all right, just to have Edward against him, pushing away, their flesh together. It was jarring but rhythmic enough for Alfons's exhausted self to start drifting away, and he hoped Edward wouldn't mind as he began to drift, and when Edward yelped and bit his ear, then stopped abruptly, panting, and draped himself across his back, his gentle breath against his ear, Alfons didn't mind at all as he slid gently out of consciousness, the Philosopher's Stone, as ever, tight in his palm. His last conscious feeling was of Edward gently sucking on the back of his neck.

Beneath them, the sinister house hummed with all its terrible secrets, but Alfons felt an odd stillness as he slipped into sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

It was almost a surprise when morning came. The previous night had seemed cataclysmic, and Edward had slept fitfully, repeating the scene at the Gate countless times; hearing Al's seductive voice, Hohenheim's crumbling form, the eviscerated porter. He had spent the night waking and drowning into sleep again, forced upon him by full-on fatigue. The periods of wakefulness were passed watching over Alfons, who seemed to be sleeping almost too deeply, his breathing somewhat labored but yet he was difficult to stir, and Edward kept poking him to make sure that he hadn't slipped into unconsciousness. In the thin early morning light, Alfons looked pallid but his face was relaxed and soft, like a sleeping child's, and it reminded him sharply of his brother. This thought, intersected with the recollection of the voice at the Gate, which he felt certain had been simulated to tempt him, nearly tormented him with emotions about Al that he hadn't, of late, thought of dealing with. But now, here they were, and it was important because their father was dead. He had always been absent, but it was another thing altogether that he was dead, that they were orphans, and impossibly separated by space, time, and whatever else he might want to throw in there.

He thought it would be best not to sleep any more, although he longed for unconsciousness. They weren't in a safe place, and it was now his mission to figure out a way to leave it with both himself and Alfons intact. The only weak link amongst the people in the house seemed to be Sukhova...her and perhaps Peters, but he hadn't even spoken with him yet. He wondered whether Peters was regretting his decision to join this Company as much as Edward regretted coming to this house, more or less on his own free will. He had a feeling, however, that they would have gotten him here one way or another. At least, he had gotten to see Hohenheim one last time.

As the sun rose the room brightened somewhat, and after taking a trip to the bathroom to relieve himself of some shockingly orange-colored urine (he reminded himself he had to drink water today) he took the opportunity to see what was in there. Old furniture of possibly high quality--he was not able to judge--covered with a layer of dust suggesting that the room hadn't been used in at least several years. He opened the draws to the bureau, finding sheets of tissue paper normally used to preserve ties and collars, some stray collar stays, some handkerchiefs and little else aside from dust. He lifted the handkerchiefs and stuffed them into the pocket of his coat, which he picked up from the floor, imagining pragmatically that Alfons might need them. In the portmanteau there dangled some empty wooden hangers, and on the bottom sat an abandoned pair of lady's boots of graying white leather and replete with tiny, fussy buttons.

The other furniture in the room comprised two stuffed chairs of red velvet, and a tiny setee. It was a decent-sized room, almost the size of their entire little flat. At the window, Edward looked out on the unkempt property, overgrown grass with patches of brown, sweeping out into a slightly hilly countryside. The day looked like it was shaping up for a blue sky and warmth again, which he somehow considered a good omen. Under no circumstances could he allow another sun to set on him, and Alfons, here in this house, without taking action. They had to get out of here, had to. His stomach growled and gurgled--he hadn't eaten since lunch the day before--as he stared out the dirty window and tried to formulate a plan. He had a Stone, right here in the room with him, if only he could use it to activate an array, maybe he could create enough chaos to get himself and Alfons away from the house. If he could somehow gain the confederacy of Peters, even Sukhova, maybe they could steal a car, even...it was ambitious, but he didn't fancy their chances out there, easily twenty kilometers from the nearest village, let alone the hour-long drive back to Munich. He was disturbed by not having a clear sense of where he was in space; he'd been so distracted by the roughness of the ride from Munich that he wasn't sure at all how to get back. He'd find a way, he decided. Didn't he always? Yet, what had happened to Hohenheim weighed heavily on him. If Hohenheim couldn't get his way out of here, what chance did he have?

No point in giving up or giving in. That never got anyone anything, that was one thing he knew. He'd do whatever stupid thing he had to do to get out of here, and only hoped it wouldn't involve something terribly criminal. But if it did, so be it. Their lives were at stake, and even more, the stability of the two worlds, should the Gate be open and abused like they planned. Idiots, he thought, scorning their arrogance. Yes, he'd been arrogant himself once, but even he had never thought to put his skills to weapons and creating terror, or whatever it was they wanted to do with the Gate and the stones. Ideally, he should be stopping this whole enterprise, right here. He still had no clear idea of what was going on, or who was in charge. They had referred several times to a "Director" and Jamison was the "Assistant Director"--so who was this Director person, and who was financing all this, and who had figured out that Hohenheim could summon a Gate? It wasn't even clear that they understood that Hohenheim--and by implication, himself--were from a world beyond the Gate. All they knew was that there was one, and he certainly wanted to keep them in ignorance about it as long as it was possible.

"Edward?" Alfons's voice came soft and uncertain from the bed behind him. He turned around to see Alfons lying on his side, eyes half-open, looking at him from just this side of sleep. Ed went over, softly, reminded of his concern for Alfons, who had lately become so seemingly fragile. The idea of him being hurt to blackmail himself scorched him and fired him up again, so that he had to hide his agitation as he went to sit on the bed beside him. Gently he stroked his flesh hand through the fringe of hair falling across Alfons's brow.

"How are you feeling?" he asked anxiously. Alfons's color wasn't good. He was pale and soft with sleep, though there was a red blush across his cheekbones that he hoped wasn't fever, and his brow felt warm when he touched it with his palm.

Alfons took a while to answer this, squinting his eyes as if he had to calculate, take stock of his body and its sensations. "I don't know," he said finally. He started to sit up, and Ed reached out to help him. Alfons sat with the sheet over his lap, turning his head a bit this way and that as if testing his orientation. His eyelids looked a bit swollen, with dark circles underneath, and Edward noticed that his breath was especially sour. He smelled a bit of illness and was in specific need of tooth powder. He supposed they could ask for some...then he shook his head, angry at himself for assuming that they would be doing anything, anything, but plotting to get the fuck out of here.

"Do you think you'll be able to walk?" Ed asked. Alfons hesitated again, clearly not in the sharpest of states, and Ed became cluckingly impatient. "This is really important...I have to know what the situation is, so we can plan to leave."

Alfons nodded and began to edge himself off the bed. He stood up slowly but fairly steadily, and Ed watched with relief as he took a few steps toward the window. He peered out curiously, then looked back at Ed.

"You must be starved," Ed said. "I am too. I'll go get us some food and then we're working on getting the hell out of here."

Alfons turned to face him, framed by the morning light, the sun fully risen behind him in the dusty glass, resplendent, right then, he seemed, framed in light. He nodded, sharply this time.

"I'll do whatever you want," he said. "You can count on me."

"I know," Ed said. "You go wash up a bit, I'll be back."

There was somebody waiting in the hall, as if he was put there just for him, which he probably was, Ed realized, put out. Another one of the Company's accolytes, a thick-set thuggish looking man of about thirty, was stationed at the top of the staircase in the middle of the long hallway, just sitting on the steps picking at his fingernails when Ed made his way to the top of the stairs.

"Who are you looking for?" the man asked brusquely, seemingly annoyed at being interrupted at doing nothing. His job had been easy so far, and Ed was tempted to give him a hard time.

"We need something to eat," said Ed, in demand-mode. He thought he might as well take the position that he was important and indispensable, while he could. "Can you have some food sent up to this room? Also, I need to see Jamison. Where is he?"

The commanding tone seemed to put the man in a quandary. He pulled down the hem of his too-tight, rather worn jacket and glanced nervously down the stairs as if hoping to see someone who could provide direction. Clearly, he'd just been told to keep an eye on them. He had no other plan.

"Come with me...I guess," he said, motioning for Ed to follow him as he set off heavily down the stairs. Like their room, the worn carpeting on the stairs seemed to expel puffs of dust. This house really had not been occupied for long, Ed surmised. He followed the man to the foot of the stairs, then through the entrance way where they had stood half a day ago, and down another hallway, the opposite side to the passage that led to the kitchen and the courtyard. They stopped in front of a pair of garish wooden double doors, that must once have housed the main office of this estate in its glory days. Ed could not shake the feeling of the dissolution and decay suggested by this house. It was rotten in all respects and he felt, almost squeamishly, that its influence would be harmful to them, particularly to Alfons. It was not a place to get better in, he felt sure of that. He thought of his father's bones in the basement as his keeper rapped on the door and he heard a curt reply of "Yes?" from the other side.

The man opened the door and stuck his head in, while Ed peered down this new hallway, unable to discern anything but more dusty doorways. He wondered if Peters and Sukhova, any of the others, were somehow kept here against their will, and determined to find out.

The man pushed the door inwards, indicating to Ed that he should enter.

"What about our food?" asked Ed sharply, since the man looked as if he were about to back away.

"Have something brought up, Roman," said Jamison, and the man bobbed his head before disappearing and closing the door behind him.

Ed stood in a large room configured as an office with a huge oak desk set before a set of leaded glass windows. It was dark and dreary, and of course, dusty. Jamison sat at the desk, piles of papers around him, and he looked like a disaffected bureaucrat. Ed thought of the Colonel back home and almost smiled, until Jamison flashed him a grim look and threw down his pen.

"So," said Jamison, leaning forward, he pressed his fingertips together, again reminding Ed of Mustang. If only this man would be like that one. Ed was fairly certain that he wasn't.

"So." Ed tried to stare him down. He wasn't going to be bullied by this guy. "We need to leave, today." It was worth a shot; he phrased it as commandingly as he could.

"No. Try again." Jamison reached for his discarded pen. "Really, Elric."

Ed felt his temper rising. "I'm not going to be your dog and do whatever you want. You might as well let me leave. Besides, I don't know anything about what my father was doing."

"Nonsense. Surely you are familiar with the Gate?" Jamison's eyes lit up. "It's fantastic. And only we, of all the people in the world, have the ability to open it. We are on the threshold of such tremendous power. You can be a part of that."

"I don't want to be a part of it," Ed spat. "You have no idea what you're messing with...my father told me that mucking around with the Gate could cause...instability...the Gate is a dangerous entity, you can't control it."

"Anything can be controlled," said Jamison. "We just have to figure out how. We have these stones, we have the Gate, we have things at our disposal that nobody else can dream of. There must be a way to harness their power, and we'll find it. That's where you come in. We know you know at least some of your father's science...you can help us."

Ed realized that they really didn't know what they were dealing with; they didn't realize that he and his father were from the other side of the Gate, that there even was an other side of the Gate, as he had suspected. This came as a great relief, but it was also alarming in that they were so incredibly naive about it.

He swallowed. "Where did that...that creature in the cellar, where did it come from?"

"I don't know, the Director found it, apparently, that's what started all this...the theory is that it came from the Gate. We think it's some kind of portal."

"To what?" Ed tried to appear amazed and nervous.

Jamison stood, animated with possibility. "To another world! Another realm, where beasts like that live. Imagine if we could make an army of those, it was quite deadly when it was still kicking, before we subdued it. It took out a couple of men."

"You sure seem willing to sacrifice a lot of lives to this cause, whatever it is," Ed said, not bothering to hide his disgust.

"This is bigger than a few men, bigger than you and me, even," said Jamison.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," Ed said, crossing his arms. He thought to himself that it was almost a good thing that Hohenheim was gone, if this was what he had been doing...it was better that they wouldn't know how to open the Gate again.

Jamison cleared his throat. "If I don't, you certainly do." He came out from behind his desk and approached Ed. "You can help us change the world, help us get that Gate back."

"No." Ed stood his ground, even as Jamison towered over him. "I don't know how...and besides, I wouldn't even if I did."

Jamison sighed. "The Director will be disappointed. We had hopes for you."

"So you could do to me what you did to my father? Use me up for a few weeks and then throw me away? Where do you think that would get you?"

"We made mistakes with Hohenheim...we didn't know what was going to happen, but we can control for it..."

"What makes you think you can control the Gate?" Ed was at his wits' end over how stupid and arrogant the man was being. "It's not exactly a predictable entity. Unless you want to count on its predictability to fuck things up. You saw what it did to that guy last night."

Nodding grimly, Jamison paced a bit. "Yes, yes, I know...it was unfortunate. I was very excited by the possibility that he might...but no." He stopped and looked at Ed. "I almost went in myself...I was so curious."

"You're a coward, pushing that guy in there against his will. And a murderer, come to think of it."

Jamison looked surprised at the charge. He shook his head, as if Ed did not understand anything.

"This is all beside the point right now," Ed said impatiently. "I can't help you, and I have to get my friend out of here, so we'll be going, today."

"I can't let you go. The Director would be furious."

Ed fisted his hand in frustration. "Listen, Alfons is sick, all right? He can't be stuck here."

"Seems to me his presence is quite a motivator for you," observed Jamison.

"He's my friend," Ed said stiffly.

"Yessss," Jamison drawled. "You might want to try to be more discreet with your friend. It only took a peek into your room last night to see you two entwined." He crossed his arms and gave Ed a droll, taunting look. "You've made this far too easy for us, and difficult for yourself, as you can see."

"Bastard," Ed hissed, half to himself. His eyes were stinging, and he tried to convert the lump in his throat into purposeful anger. "He's sick, he needs to be in hospital."

"Then why isn't he?" asked Jamison, again almost tauntingly. "You're not taking very good care of him, bringing him here."

Ed looked away from Jamison's challenging gaze. He had found his weakness so easily, it was almost embarrassing. "We didn't think we'd be staying, obviously."

"Yes," said Jamison. "Well things have changed. Prepare to stay a while, at least until you can summon a stable gate that will allow passage. We cannot forego this opportunity to use it to our advantage."

Ed raked his hand over his face in frustration. How were they not getting how dangerous it was, and how pointless were their attempts to control the gate? Even if he did manage to summon one, he wouldn't have the slightest idea how to control it. He wasn't even sure, he realized, if he could control his own impulses to go through it, despite the risks. He wanted to go home more than anything, and all this talk of Gate, Gate, Gate was beginning to mess with his head. Summoning a Gate had been the plan, way back when he had first come to this world, but when he and Hohenheim had concluded it was impossible, he left it alone, seeking other, probably more tenuous ways--the rockets seemed almost silly now, despite their practical purpose, there was no evidence that he could reach his own world in that way. The worlds were connected by the Gate, nothing else. Now, he could, perhaps, summon one, with Hohenheim's notes, with the Stone; he was less confident about the remains of the creature in the cellar.

As if reading his mind, Jamison interrupted his thoughts. "So, what do you need? Of course, you can have your father's notes, and the stones he produced, and anything else you need. Do you think you can make use of that serpent any longer? Hohenheim said the blood had dried up and it's beginning to rot."

Ed uncrossed his arms, looked at his gloved hands, flexed and fisted them, unsure what to say. He knew what the right thing to do here was, but "right" and "desired" were two different things, for all of them.

He shook his head slowly. "No, clear it away," he said. He looked up and met Jamison's eye, feeling nearly, but not quite defeated. He still had something they wanted. "I'll work on this, under two conditions."

Jamison shifted and crossed his own arms defensively. Clearly he hoped he could deliver.

"If we can't leave, I want to bring his doctor here, to examine and treat Alfons," he said. "Second, I want to meet this Director. I need to know who all this is for."

Jamison twisted his mouth. "I can agree to the doctor. The Director is a more difficult request. I'll see what I can do."

"All right." Ed approached the desk and indicated that he would like to use pen and paper. "Can you have someone deliver a message to the doctor, today?"

Jamison nodded. "Of course." This was small potatoes for people who were going to take over the world.

"One thing," Ed said, pausing before dipping the pen into the inkwell. "I need a guarantee that the doctor will not be detained here."

Jamison snorted. "We've had outsiders here before. We don't keep everyone here, you know. Just alchemists," he said, seemingly amused by himself.

Ed leaned over the table and began to write a letter to Maria, hoping that she would get the letter, which he would send to Otto's flat. The address to the soiree, which had been last Saturday night, and which they had missed, was still in his trouser pocket. It was all he had, and he almost nearly prayed as he composed his plea to her to get her father to come out here. He had no idea if she would take it seriously.

Alfons stood staring down at the bathtub as he watched the taps rinse out the last of the water that had sat in there all night, the water with his blood mixed into it. He had seen the small globules of blood and mucus suspended in the water. How had Edward not thought to pull up the plug the whole night? And then he thought that he might not have wanted to stick his hand in there. Alfons sniffed at his armpit as he leaned over the tub, naked to the waist, contemplating a bath. I stink, he thought, and thought even less of his breath as he considered the sharp metallic taste in his mouth. His breath felt hot and sickly, and his nostrils burned. He wasn't sure if he was feverish or not, but he was probably getting there. He had already thrown up in the toilet four times, although his stomach was empty of anything but bile and a little blood. He had to pull the chain to the toilet several times to clean the bowl, listening to the old building's rickety plumbing as it knocked behind the walls and shuddered the tank above his head.

God, I'm so ill, he thought, as the last of the water left the bathtub. His arms shook and barely supported him as he propped himself and bent forward, reaching to adjust the cold and hot taps, each releasing their separate streams into the newly empty tub. As he bent farther to press the stopper into the drain, he began to cough. Suddenly the hospital wasn't looking so bad anymore; surely it would be clean and comfortable there. A little crowded, maybe, but at least not reeking of the stench of that basement. Just the thought of it turned his stomach.

As the bath ran he took a look at himself at the mirror over the sink. Its surface was clouded with grit, of course, and surrounded by a faded gilt frame so that he looked almost like a Dutch masters painting. His eyes looked a bit sunken, he knew, and while his face was pale his cheeks entertained two bright red spots on his cheekbones, evidence of a fever, no doubt, or even some kind of infection. His throat hurt, felt more raw even than it had for the past few weeks, but when he tried to have a look at it in the mirror he could not gather enough light to see what was going on back there. He was convinced that his neck looked scrawnier than usual, as it had back when he was twelve or thirteen, a time when his head had seemed too big for his body. He reached up a shaky hand, touching the corner of his own mouth, he pulled up his lip and surveyed the paleness of his gums, another thing that previous doctors had found of interest. Even his teeth felt loose, although he wasn't sure whether that was imagined or not.

Edward didn't know the extent of it, even after his shameful confession. He had been hiding it from him for months, but he had known a time would come when he would be found out. As he waited for the bath to fill, Alfons wondered why he attached so much shame to his condition. Was it because it made him seem weak? None of the other people he was working with back in Transylvania or in Munich seemed to suffer as much as he did. Being ill made him feel like less of a person, less worthy than the others. He was fatally flawed, weak in the chest and now, he feared, growing weak in the head. These past few weeks, he hadn't felt as sharp as he used to be. He should be at the height of his intellect--a promising, brilliant undergraduate--and instead he was growing increasingly foggy-headed and distractable. His mind wandered when he worked...to the aches and pains in his body, to Edward. His growing dependence upon and attachment to Edward, it had inevitably deepened in his own mind as his health began to fail, even as he recognized it would inevitably lead to separation of some kind.

Alfons dipped his fingers in the bathwater. It was suitably hot. How nice to have abundant hot water, in an out-of-the-way place like this. Even though the plumbing knocked...it must have been a very grand house a few years ago. He wondered who had lived here before as he sloughed off his open shirt and underwear, and climbed into the tub. He lay back and let the steamy vapor work on his sore throat and lungs. It was always soothing to breathe steam, something a doctor had recommended to him almost a year ago, when he had first went to a clinic to be told that he probably had asthma, or pneumonia, or both. If only it were those, he thought, smiling a bit. Living would be a lot easier if he didn't have that Sword of Damocles hanging over his head.

He leaned back and relaxed into the water, trying to keep from the forefront of his mind the circumstances in which he currently found himself. It was useless, however, to pretend that he and Edward weren't trapped in this house, overseen by some sinister corporation...that Professor Hohenheim had died at their hands, more or less, just last night. He had met Hohenheim several times, and he had been suitably impressed on each occasion. He seemed such a confident, intelligent man, very self-possessed and calm, and Alfons had been quite in awe of him. And his size...such a big man, it was pretty shocking to take into account that Edward was his natural born son.

He had known one thing, though: that Edward had had a complicated, conflicted relationship with him. The way Edward spoke about his father had always been one part resentment, one part antagonism, and one part awe. He had looked up to him, and relied on him, to some extent. For his part, Hohenheim seemed to be in equal measures both protective and awkward. He never let too much time pass without checking up on Edward, after he had left his flat. He always sent him notes and money, even when he disappeared for weeks at a stretch. And now he was dead...Alfons shifted in the bath and took a deep breath, feeling his chest open up, satisfactory. He had been old, Edward had said, older than he looked, which was interesting...so, he had lived a long time, Alfons tried to comfort himself with this information. It occurred to him that his own time was short, and perhaps it wouldn't be an entirely insane thing to offer to help Edward, if he needed someone to get close to this gate, or go through it even; his life wasn't worth all that much anymore. This thought was less terrifying than usual when bound up with the notion of doing something risky and fantastical. The thought that scared him the most--that of just wasting away and suffering slowly to death--was held at bay by all this fantastical drama.

Or he could just slip under this hot soapy water and let his lungs fill with water. That was always an option too.

"This is what they brought?" Edward wrinkled his nose at the tray of food that had been left in the room. Runny eggs, burnt-looking toast, a few tablespoons of moldy marmalade smeared onto a plate. "The service here is terrible."

Alfons sat on the edge of the bed watching Edward eat, with surprising gusto given his negative review of the food, and rubbed his wet hair with a flannel.

Edward chewed on his toast thoughtfully. Alfons knew that look, plans were afoot. Lucky for him Edward's brain never stopped, because his own was at a standstill. He was groggy and a little transcendent after his bath. He felt as if he could lie down and sleep through the day. He went to comb his hair in front of a dusty mirror.

"You'd better come eat before I finish it all," Edward said, speech obscured by the food in his mouth.

Alfons turned and came toward the tray on the low table before the setee. Nothing looked particularly appetizing.

"Drink the tea at least," Edward said. "Eat some toast--or something, you can't not eat!"

That might be unfathomable to Edward, but eating had begun to lose its lustre, these past few weeks. Having a full stomach often made him feel nauseated. Not to mention that when he coughed, he would bring up food if he'd recently eaten. Still, Edward was right. He couldn't not eat, that meant the end. He reached for a slice of toast and pressed it against the marmalade that remained on the cracked china plate.

"This place is a fucking dump," Edward observed, washing down his meal with the tea. "I saw Jamison's office...it's full of dust just like everything else around here."

"Strange that such a valuable house would be abandoned," Alfons remarked.

"The kitchen guy said he thinks it was abandoned since the start of the war."

"That makes sense," Alfons said. "The owners must have fled to avoid fighting, and then been killed or exiled..."

"Who cares?" Edward flicked his hand in that dismissive, impatient way of his, and slammed the teacup onto the table. Pressing his hands to his knees, he stood. Alfons was certain that he could hear Edward's body creak, and the wince Edward tried to conceal did not escape him. "Time to get moving."

"Wait." Alfons went close and put his hands on either side of Edward's neck. Feeling the tension there, he began to squeeze firmly but gently. "See, you're hurting because you left your arm on all night."

Edward closed his eyes. He said, "It's nothing," but still winced and then nearly purred with pleasure as Alfons kneaded at where his neck met his shoulders.

"See, I can take care of you sometimes, too," Alfons thought, but didn't say. It was the kind of thing that Edward would take the wrong way, maybe challenge.

"So, what are you planning on doing?" Alfons asked, hoping that Edward had some kind of a plan, more of a plan than just "break us out of here."

Edward gently extricated himself from the massage and straightened his collar, all business again. "I'm going to have a look at my father's notebooks and whatever else they have down there. I don't want to leave them here, in the wrong hands. If I can't get them out, I'm going to destroy them. That's the first thing." He looked around the room, then at the door, and lowered his voice when he spoke again. "The other thing is, I want to see this Director. We need to find out who it is. We need to get out of here, but we also need to know who this person is so we can get to them...I think we need to talk to a couple of people here, too, and find out what they know."

"Who do you think will talk to us?" Alfons wondered. "Peters?"

Edward nodded. "And Sukhova. Last night she said something that makes me thing we can get her to talk about the big picture. We should find out what it is, maybe we can get her to help us if we offer to help her, with whatever it is she's after."

"Right." Alfons admired how resolute and focused Edward seemed. Now composed, Edward went to the mirror and straightened his hair as best he could. It was obvious that his artifical arm was paining him. Alfons knew there was no way he would take it off now, but tonight he would insist. Edward made a rather fierce, determined face at himself in the mirror, flaring his nostrils in a way that made Alfons laugh sharply.

"What?" Edward whipped around.

"Nothing." Alfons snapped on his suspenders. Edward was all business right now, and he wasn't in the mood for any of Alfons's stupid digressions, he realized. "So, what do you want me to do?"

"You find Sukhova...use whatever you have to to get her sympathy." Edward raised his eyebrows. IF he meant, play up the illness, that wouldn't be a problem. "I'll get the notes, hopefully I'll find Peters down in the labs. Sukhova seems to stay more above ground, but I don't know where she spends her time. Skulk around, I don't know..." Edward trailed off, having reached the end of the road as far as the plan was concerned.

"Got it." Alfons nodded. He certainly could do that, find Sukhova, talk to her.

"All right, so I'm off." Edward went toward the door, then turned around before turning the knob. "Oh, and I just had a messenger send for Maria and her father."

"What?" Alfons was shocked by this seemingly nonsequitorial news. "Why?"

"Her dad's a doctor, she told me. Otto's was the only address I had on me, and Jamison was going to read the note. I had to make it seem legit." Edward took the crumpled slip of paper out of his trouser pocket. "Anyway, it's a great pretext for getting some help...not to mention, having a doctor look at you."

Alfons had to admit it was a very clever idea, but he blanched at the thought of innocent people coming here and voiced the concern to Edward. Of course it had already occurred to him.

"It's a risk, and I hope it turns out all right, but Jamison promised they wouldn't give them any trouble. But we have to be careful."

"Of course. If Maria got hurt because of us---"

"I'll make sure she won't. I'd better get down there. Are you all right to go find Sukhova?"

Alfons nodded, watched Edward leave the room and pull the door closed behind him. Alfons stood alone in the middle of the floor with his hand on his chest. It still felt sore and tight, the effects of the bath were already wearing off. He drank the rest of the cup of grim tea and wished fervently that he had thought to bring his medicine with him. Then he pulled down his sleeves, straightened his collar, slid into his jacket and went in search of Sukhova.

"Roman", or the poorly-dressed thug who had been assigned, apparently, to dog Ed throughout the house, followed him without a word as he slipped out the door and down the stairs.

Ed turned to look at him. "So, are you glued to me by the hip now? Is that it?"

The man shrugged. "Pretty much."

"I'm going down to the cellars. Is that all right with the powers that be?"

Roman indicated with his hand that he should proceed to the stated location. While Ed did not enjoy being tailed, he didn't imagine that this guy would know much in the way of substantive information, and shouldn't get in the way, for now. All he had to do was examine the arrays, and take the notes from the room. He hoped he could get the guy distracted long enough to destroy the notes, if he had to, but he'd worry about that when the time came. He stalked down the hallways, remembering easily enough the path to the courtyard and the cellars. The courtyard was now bathed in morning light, and he stood there a moment, soaking in the sun. He squinted up at the sky, the yellow sun, which looked the same as the one that hung in the sky back home, so exactly so that he knew, somehow, that it was one in the same. He still wasn't quite sure how this could be, and he might never know. A few white clouds sat high in the firmament, far away and not threatening rain. When he looked down again, he noticed that the metal tubs filled with flesh--that he now figured to be part of the serpant--were emptied and standing on their sides, dripping with water as if they had just been rinsed out.

He wondered what they were going to do with the remains of the serpent, just as he wondered what they were going to do with the bones of Hohenheim. He didn't believe for a moment that there would be a 'proper' burial. That didn't really matter to him; he wasn't terribly attached to the earthly remains, and a grave in this world, where his father had been only a visitor, did not seem urgently necessary. He still wasn't sure that he had felt the full impact of Hohenheim's death before the Gate, and he figured that that was just as well.

Roman stood watching him, eyes shielded from the sun's glare with the edge of his hand to his brow, the soiled white sheets on the clothesline flapping around him in the breeze.

"So, do you enjoy this line of work?" Ed asked him.

The man shrugged. "It's a living," he said. "I'm happy to have a job."

He had about him the air of a person who wasn't entirely committed. Ed wondered if he could use that. On the other hand, he also seemed slightly desperate and punchy. Ed noticed the unshaven chin, the way the man's hands fidgeted, that constant squint. He had a hungry look.

"Right," Ed said. He wondered just how hungry this man had been. He was an former soldier, most likely, as these body-guard types tended to be. "I guess I should get going." Roman seemed to shudder, and Ed realized that he himself was less than looking forward to going down into the horrible cellars, with that stench of burning and ruin, and the wrecked and rotting body of the serpent. He really did hope that they had thought to remove Hohenheim's remains. He took a breath and recalled his father's insistence that he stop whatever these people were trying to do and steeled himself for the trip downstairs.

Alfons stuck his head out the door before proceeding into the hallway. He had never been involved in anything so mysterious, and the possibility of danger prickled his skin. He'd already suffered the brunt of their violence, and knew that their threats were genuine. Yet he felt strangely free of terror as he made his way down the hall, stopping beside each doorway to listen for signs of life and detect Sukhova. Was it because he felt he had little to lose? He wondered at himself. He was, in many ways, a timid sort of creature, bold only when in his element--a laboratory, at school, a place where he was certified and acknowledged. Here in this house, he felt like a nonentity, a pawn for Edward's knight. The concept that he was dispensible rankled only faintly. It was almost freeing.

Silence behind all the doors on this floor, which wrapped around another corridor and ended in a brilliant leaded glass window, its colors subdued by dust and grit but all the same, breathtaking, its mosaic of bright glass catching the arcing sun in the East. He stood admiring it and the pattern it made on the burnished wood floor. Every moment felt like his last. Maybe this house would be where he met his end. Maybe this would be the last beautiful thing he would ever see...that, and Edward's face, to which he had become breathtakingly, heart-rendingly attached. He had not been exaggerating last night when he had said to Edward, in his feverish stupor, that part of him felt as if he had always been here, dreamed this place. He had never been inside a grand house like this before, and yet, it felt strangely familiar. Like it was built two hundred years ago, just to wait for him. Would his bones lie on its grounds, like Hohenheim's, like that serpent that Edward had described? These thoughts didn't make him shudder, only sigh with wonder at the strange turns a life can take.

"Mr. Heiderich." A voice from behind him made him jump. He was so used to being alone with himself this past hour. How had he become so slow, so easy to shock? He hadn't heard anyone approach, and it was so quiet up here. A woman's voice, with a Slavic purr.

"Fraulein Sukhova," he said formally, feeling his pulse surge and quicken. He turned around to see her. Well, he'd found her. Or she'd found him. In any case, his mission was in full swing. He felt dizzy.

"What are you doing out of your room? You were so ill last night, surely you should be in bed?" She looked genuinely concerned, a little knot of flesh between her brows, frowning like a disaffected hospital matron.

They wanted him in bed, he knew, and out of the way, an easy thing to control, an invalid pawn. He was experiencing just enough vertigo to want to fulfill the wish, and he allowed Sukhova to take his arm and lead him back down the hall. She was tiny, even smaller than Edward, but taut and firm as a gymnast under her ill-fitting suit. In her severe gray suit she looked like a girl dressed up as a teacher, her hair pulled back from a sharp but pretty face. Or rather, a face that would have been pretty if she didn't seem to be so utterly miserable. Even after she got her way that knot of worry did not disappear from her brow.

She walked him to the bed and watched as he swung his legs up. She arranged some pillows for him to sit up against, stood back and crossed her arms.

"Did they send you to check up on me?"

"No." She studied his face. "I came upstairs and found you, that's all."

He was almost disappointed. They didn't even care enough about him to make sure he was still in the bed?

"Oh." He cast about for something to say. "So, what do you do here?" he blurted artlessly.

He noticed her blanch a little, and she backed away. "Just my job," she said. "I should get going, if you're all right."

He panicked inwardly, hating to let this one chance slip away. "Wait!" he said. He pressed his hands to his cheeks. "I'm really not feeling well, if you could just stay for a moment...I'm afraid I might faint."

"Oh!" Sukhova stepped forward and gently took his hand. Her skin was soft, dry, her hand small but strong. "I wish those fools would keep a doctor on staff," she said, rather bitterly, and pressed the back of her other hand to his brow. "You do feel a bit warm, but there is no air in this house. The air in here is unhealthy. Certainly no place for an invalid." She held his eyes. Her own were intense, dark, and certainly fearful enough to make his pulse surge again. She must have felt it in his hand because she squeezed his wrist and pronounced, "You need a cold compress, hold on."

She went into the bathroom and came out with a damp flannel, folded into a pad that she pressed to his head. She brought his hand up to hold it in place. "Poor boy," she said, more to herself. "They are awful to keep you here, I told them." She sat down on the side of the bed, then glanced at the door, and seeing it open, went to close it before coming to sit down again. She leaned forward and spoke in a fervent whisper. "I argued with them last night to let you go," she said. "They wouldn't listen to me."

"Thank you for trying," he said. The compress felt good, and he savored the drops of water leaking down into his eyes. He hadn't realized before how dry they had felt. He sighed melodramatically. "I am afraid I am going to die here," he said.

Her eyes widened. "Die here! No, no, don't say that." She leaned forward again, conspiratorial. "Tell me, do you have consumption?"

He nodded. "A form of it, but I'm not contagious, don't worry."

"I'm not worried. My entire family died of consumption while I lived with them." She waved her hand. "I'm tougher than I look, let me tell you," she said, sharpening her gaze.

"I'm sorry about your family," he said. And he was.

"That was before the Revolution," she said. "My father lost his farm when the local landlord lost a poker bet." She delivered this fact almost without emotion. "He died a year later, and my mother and sister the year after that, after we were driven from our house to live in the streets like animals. We lived in the commons of our village for a year, scrounging for food. I was fifteen when I was left alone." She fiddled in a businesslike manner with the compress, rearranging it as if she was bothered whether it was symmetrical.

Well, that was some story. Alfons nodded, at a loss at how to follow that with anything that could move her.

"I'm an orphan too," he lied, and felt an accompanying surge of adrenaline. How he hated lying about such a thing. He had a mother, although at this point he was not terribly attached to her.

She sighed, nodded, and gave him a look of such calculated empathy that he nearly retracted the lie. But she reached up and stroked his hair, now damp from the compress, away from his face again, and he realized, despite her business-like demeanor, that he had her in the palm of his hand.

"So...you're Russian, then? What brings you to Germany?" He tried to use guile, asked this in a tone of offhand politesse, as if he were obligated to.

She nodded sharply to the Russian part, then twisted her mouth before answering. Alfons made a point of closing his eyes and coughing a bit to demonstrate his utter worthlessness as a long-term vessel of information. He hoped it would work.

"Working for the Company," she said. "I used to work for a mining combine in Buryatia...I was put in charge of a mineral mine and they found exciting materials--"

"--uranium?" Alfons couldn't resist interrupting.

She nodded curtly and added, "Tungsten and titanium, weapons grade materials. The Company was out there within three days of our discovery and they tried to work a deal." She waved her hand. "I am an expert geologist. In exchange for advising the Company on mineral acquisitions, I have a stake in the product."

"What is the product?"

She closed her eyes and the corners of her mouth turned up. "I can't tell you that."

Alfons recalled the phrase "weapons grade" and felt it wasn't really necessary to press. Of course that's what they were after; it was the only thing a shadowy "company" could produce that could gather experts from around the world, that would be so valuable that people would be willing to kill for it. It certainly wasn't a cure for cancer, he would be willing to bet his increasingly value-less life on that.

So he said, "All right," and closed his eyes again to sham fatigue, which wasn't exactly a stretch. He did feel tired, so worn out, and his chest still felt raw each time he took a breath that surpassed shallow. He was worried that he wasn't getting enough oxygen to his brain.

"I really should be checking on some things," she said. "Will you be all right on your own? Can I get you anything?"

He decided to go for broke and grabbed her hand. "Thank you for sitting with me," he said. "I'm sure you're busy."

"That's all right, it's been no trouble. They will be looking for me though--"

"Before you go, can I ask you one thing?" He cast about in his mind for how to draw her out on this question that he knew Edward wanted the answer to; he wanted to be a success, and to bring Edward the holy grail of information, but he wasn't quite sure how to get her to tell him. He tried a circuitous route. "Do you know whose house this is?"

"It belongs to the Company," she said. "I'm fairly certain they own it now."

"I'm just...I was just so fascinated by the architecture, that window I was looking at when you found me...do you know who owned it before?"

"Why would I know that?" she asked. Indeed, why should she?

"Does the Director have an office here?" he asked.

"The Director has been here only twice, that I know of," said Sukhova. "I don't really know."

"You've met him?" Alfons asked before the window slammed shut.

Sukhova gave him a wily look, eyelids almost closed, she looked down at him, a wrinkle in her slender nose. "I have met the Director," she said.

"Is he...what's he like?" Alfons was at a loss how to follow up, given that she knew what he was fishing for.

But she, apparently, felt like humoring him, and squeezed his wrist before briskly rising and straightening her skirt. As she walked to the door she said, "He is very...interesting."

Alfons raised his eyebrows, hoping she would go on, but she wouldn't. She patted his arm and stood up.

"I'll ask someone to bring you a cup of hot tea. You try to get some rest, all right?" She smiled at him, a genuine smile, as if she did not resent the fact that he had shammed and used her for the past hour, like she appreciated his spirit. Then she left.

The chamber in which Hohenheim had been working had been cleared of the remains of both Hohenheim and the ruined serpent, and Ed was grateful for that small mercy. The four damp stone walls still held the stench of death, and the ozone smell of alchemy, and the Gate. The floor was stained with the serpent's blood, and he was almost certain that the small pile of dust near the center of the room contained molecules of his father. Roman stood outside the door while Ed sifted through the papers and notebooks, and the abandoned distillation equipment. Feeling his body creak in protest to the cool, damp room, Ed sat down on a chair and placed the notes and papers on another he had pulled next to him. He then applied himself to examining the notes.

Of course, Hohenheim had written in code, but he and Al had long ago deciphered it, back when they were only kids, left with their absent father's papers and books. Hohenheim had been continuing his quest to access the Gate without sacrifice. His notes were variations upon variations for the array for summoning a Gate, for human transmutation, for various other conversions that Ed recognized--and some that he didn't. In the pages of his father's most recent notebook, he began to come across bits and pieces of notes on things aside from alchemy:

_Edward and Alphonse_

at the bottom of a page of notes about his attempts to open the Gate with the serpent's blood

and then he had written

_Trisha, my love_

at the bottom of another page, unrelated to anything else, as if he were starting to write her a letter

So, he had been thinking about them. Distracted, Ed began to flip through an earlier notebook, finding his and Al's and his mother's names scattered here and there throughout. This was unexpectedly touching and Ed had to close the book and rest his eyes before they start to burn any harder. It was dark in the chamber despite the flickering gaslamps and the extra oil lamp on the worktable. He allowed himself a small measure of sentiment; Hohenheim had always been the central, constant enemy, until he had come through the Gate that second time, and had had to submit to being cared for by him. What he would have given, at the time, to be able to give the old man a punch in the jaw and run off...but he had been helpless when he had first come through the Gate, which had seen fit to violently remove the newly regained flesh limbs once again (he understood, in a way, he hardly deserved them for all the trouble he had caused). If Hohenheim had ever seen him that time--only once--when he had slammed the door to his room and allowed himself to sob in frustration and despair over that horrible wooden leg and that useless marionette arm that did nothing but fill up his sleeve, having felt the stares and clucks of pity out on the street, the full impact of his disability in a world without automail finally fully felt--he had never said a word, only hours later had come into his room with plans and designs for something approaching automail and pledged to make it happen. It was like having your worst enemy see you at your lowest moment and...be kind to you.

Ed sighed and held the book closed on his lap. He had to be worthy of that, even now. He would be good to Alfons, that was part of it all. Hohenheim had never turned away from him, had never treated him with anything less than the greatest patience and devotion, as much as it still pained him to reflect upon it; he would do the same for someone he loved. Hohenheim must have loved him; that was the simple truth.

Ed gathered every last scrap of notes and papers and went to the doorway of the chamber, already used to having Roman as his shadow.

"Do you know where Peters works?" he asked as they started down the dim stone corridor.

"Peters...hmm. He's the chemist, right? I think there's a chemistry-looking laboratory towards the stairs." Roman led Ed less than confidently back towards where they came down, and indicated a door that had an Achtung! Poison sign and a skull and crossbones stuck to the door. Holding the papers against his body with his left arm, he rapped sharply with his right.

"Just a moment!" It was a familiar voice. Ed waited, and there were small sounds from the other side of the door, perhaps an experiment being completed. Finally the door opened, and there was Peters, looking not much less terrified than he had the night before when the Gate had been present. "Elric," he said, obviously trying to compose himself. Whoever he was afraid of, it wasn't Ed.

"Peters." Ed tried to peer into the laboratory chamber. "Can I come in and see what you're working on?"

Peters squinted suspiciously. "So, are you working here now? Word has it that you were brought here to see your father but that you didn't want to stay."

"Oh, I'm staying now," Ed said, trying to sound like it was not the last thing on earth he wanted. "They managed to convince me it would be worth my while."

"They have a way of doing that," said Peters. He still stood in the narrow space between the door and the wall, not opening it all the way to admit Ed. A pair of safety goggles were hanging around his neck.

"So, can we talk? I'm interested in what you're doing. Maybe I can help you."

"I doubt it," Peters said coldly. "But come on." He opened the door, stepped aside.

"Science talk," Ed said to Roman. "You wait out here." He let Peters shut the door.

Peters's laboratory was well equipped with the latest chemistry equipment. He had two burners and a wall of jars of chemicals, and plenty of books, several of which were open on the worktable. Peters went to stand by his some of his equipment, every variation on the shape a glass container could possibly take, and tried to look imposing in his dingy, stained lab coat, but he was a small, narrow-shouldered guy, not much taller than Ed was himself.

"What are you doing here?" Peters asked frantically. "They won't let you leave, will they?"

Ed shook his head. "I take it you're not too happy to be here either."

Peters sighed and twisted his mouth. "I--I jumped at the chance to work for the Company, they promised me a lot of money, a great laboratory. It seemed like the right thing to do with things getting so tight at the university, and with Oberth leaving."

"Yeah." Ed tried to seem as sympathetic as possible.

"But--as soon as I got here, they pretty much made it clear that I would be working on their projects, not mine. They want my research on fuel formulas, propulsives...they're really interested in fuel operations in extreme temperatures...now they have me working on trying to develop a conversion process that will work at the lowest possible temperature." Peters started drumming his fingers on the worktable nervously. "Jamison knows I did my thesis with Planck at Gottingen--"

"Entropy?" Ed wondered why this would be useful for them.

Peters nodded. "They're interested in crystals, they've had me researching the chemical composition of all these crystals, and then they put this weird one in front of me, I'd never seen anything like it."

Ed swallowed, pretty sure that he knew where this was going. "It was red, right?"

Peters nodded. "Yes, red, you've seen it?"

"I've seen it," Ed said. It was becoming more clear to him now, what they wanted Peters for. He was an expert in crystallography, and had written his thesis on the creation of crystals in extreme temperatures.

"They want me to--"

"--help them make one of those stones at a low temperature, to try to make a perfect crystal version. Am I on the right track?" Ed interrupted.

Peters nodded. "I don't understand why. I don't even know what that thing is made of, but it has something to do with that awful gate, and the things Hohenheim--your father--was doing."

Ed squinted, thinking. They might be correct in assuming that the more pure and regular a stone they could create, the more powerful it would be, and they needed to ramp up the power considerably to make the stone effective on this side of the Gate. It wasn't a bad guess. Ed wondered who had come up with all this, he had to know, because whoever it was had a greater understanding of the stone than he had originally thought.

"So, how low a temperature have you been working with?" Ed asked, examining the equipment on the table.

"I've been down to negative 200 Celsius but that's not nearly enough. I can't do it with this equipment, it's only theoretical anyway, I don't know how to get there, but they are insisting I keep trying...they want--"

"They want absolute zero," Ed said. "They want it to be perfect."

"I can't do it," said Peters, letting his head fall. "Nobody can, but they won't listen to me. They keep telling me to keep trying."

Ed felt almost sorry for him; he'd come into the situation an idealist, and just a month later he was already spent and ruined.

"Sorry," Ed said. "But I can't help you there. What I can help you with is a way to shut this place down and get out. We need to do that. Are you in?"

Peters looked at him as if he were mad. "Shut it down? How on earth do you think you're going to get away with that?"

Ed smirked. "I've been known to get away with quite a lot, actually. So are you in?"

Peters nodded.

"Good. Now let me see what you've managed to do so far..."

Ed entered the bedroom later in the afternoon, pointedly slamming the door in Roman's face. His arms were full of books and papers, which he unceremoniously dumped into the setee before coming further into the room. He pulled of his gloves and tossed them onto the bedside table, came to sit down next to Alfons and without a word ran his hand across Alfons's brow. He glanced at the damp towel on the beside table, the cold cup of tea. Alfons was sleeping, deeply, it appeared, his hand on his chest, breathing regularly but noisily, his chest making sounds reminiscent of a broken-down engine. He was deathly pale, which made Ed's heart skip a beat, but his skin felt warm, even faintly hot at the temples, and he leaned against him gently, trying not to disturb him, put his lips against his forehead, not so much to kiss as to make contact, and lingered there for a moment.

He sat up and held his hands in his lap, gazing at Alfons with eyes half-closed, wishing for the face to be more like the one he had first kissed, tanned and more healthful, a bit rounder, lips a bit fuller. Still, he loved him. His heart ached as he contemplated the trouble he'd brought him into. Now he wanted nothing more than for him to be in hospital, at least he'd know he was safe there, while he went ahead with this ridiculous non-plan, to stop the Company. He wondered if Alfons had talked to Sukhova, doubted it, but was affectionate all the same. He wanted a partner in crime, like Al had been, but Alfons couldn't be that, not now. He felt a painful stab in his stomach as he pushed away thoughts of his brother, and the painful reality of Alfons being sick. He hoped, he hoped, that Maria's father could somehow convince Jamison to let them take Alfons with them. Ed would miss him terribly but he'd feel a lot better if Alfons weren't here.

His eyelids began to flutter a bit, Alfons snorted and stirred, then cracked open an eye. He smiled.

"There you are," he said quietly. "What time is it?"

"It's after four."

"What? I only meant to nap when I lay around ten, when Sukhova left..."

Ed leaned forward. "So, you did talk to her?"

Alfons nodded and looked quite pleased with himself.

"So, what did you find out?"

Alfons smiled crookedly, a bit weakly, but still, genuinely, and Ed's attention to business was distracted by Alfons's arm reaching up, hooking around his neck and pulling him down so he was laying against him.

"I missed you."

"Looks like you were sleeping all day, when did you have time to miss me?" Ed still had trouble with Alfons's attestations of affection, even though he felt the same way. He was never that far from his mind, but still, he couldn't quite say. It hurt, a little. Alfons, though, was getting less and less restrained, at least in private. He didn't like to make the obvious connection between that and his illness. Alfons flung his other arm around Ed and Ed could feel his diminished strength as his arms squeezed. He was getting weaker, and Ed's heart sank. Alfons could not see his face, so he didn't try to hide it as he squeezed his own eyes shut to stop the sting that rose to them.

Ed sighed and relaxed against Alfons, moving his flesh hand to stroke Alfons's thick thatch of hair. He pressed against him a bit harder, rubbed his cheek against Alfons's, sighed lightly in his ear, knowing how he usually responded to that; he wanted to make him feel good but not overexcite him, not too much. Alfons purred and sighed a bit and moved underneath him, turning his face to catch Ed's lips with his. They kissed, and Ed felt all the urgency of the day redistributing itself to parts that had been otherwise neglected.

Ed rolled onto his side and swung his left leg over Alfons, careful not to hit him with it has he settled it across his thighs, it felt good to take the pressure off it --what he really wanted was to take it off, but not now. He twisted to keep the pressure off his right shoulder too and let his head settle back in the crook of Alfons's arm. This way his spine was a bit twisted but he was blissfully unreliant on his artificial limbs.

"So tell me what Sukhova said."

Alfons tipped his head closer so they were lying cheek to cheek. Ed was touched by his need for proximity, and, frankly, grateful for it.

"She's an expert in minerals, the Company recruited her from some mine in Central Asia. She says this is a totally private operation, nobody represents any government, but they're after making some powerful weapon that goes to the highest bidder, and everyone gets a cut." He shrugged. "That's pretty much all she would tell me."

"Hm." Ed chewed this over for a moment.

"Oh, one more thing. She wouldn't tell me anything useful about this Director."

"Hm." Ed chewed this over too. Why this secrecy, if he was going to meet the person? "No name?"

"No, she made it pretty clear she was not going to give me a name, or a nationality. So, did you get to talk to Peters?"

Ed described the conversation with Peters, and the results of some of his attempts to create crystals at low temperatures, all with the goal of creating the purest possible philosopher's stone.

"Do you think he can do it?"

"He doesn't think so," Ed said. "He's really nervous about being here. I can only imagine that some of these others are, too. He'll help us."

"Help us what?"

"Blow this joint up," said Ed.

"You can't be serious."

"Oh, I am." Ed pushed himself up, wincing at the pressure of his prosthetic arm where it met what remained of his sore shoulder. "But first, we have to get you out of here, or at least ready to bolt. We're gonna have to run for it."

"That's it, the plan? Just an explosion?" Alfons seemed dubious, but Ed thought the certain success lay in its simplicity.

"Remember how everyone ducked and went crazy when that gate shook the house? Peters is going to help, he has all the chemicals. It would help if we made it look like an accident, but my main goal is really just to fuck everything up, put an end to their plans here, and then get to the Director somehow. Because even if we stop shit here, I'm guessing that's just a little bump in the road for them. But it'll buy us some time."

"Right." Alfons sighed. He held his hand out to Ed and opened his fist. "I still have this. Is this helpful?"

"It might be." Ed took it and held it in his hand. It was very warm, probably from being held in Alfons's fist for so many hours. Still, it was strange that it held heat so well. Really strange.

Alfons cleared his throat, then pushed himself up onto his elbows, starting to cough. Ed helped him sit up and sat behind him, letting him lean against him as he fought the coughing fit. Ed rubbed and thumped on his back, trying desperately to stop the coughing as Alfons hacked and gasped for air. It was working up to being one of the worst coughing fits Ed had yet seen, and he winced as Alfons leaned forward and retched. His eyes were streaming tears and Ed felt helpless as he watched him endure all that pain...if only they'd brought his medicine. He hoped that Maria's father would come, he hoped he hoped. Ed got up and stood over Alfons, bracing him with his arms and asking if there was anything he could do, aside from hand him the flannel on the bedside table, which Alfons spit and retched into, producing some bloody-looking mucous. Finally, Alfons seemed to be slowing down, his coughing subsided slowly, like a thunderstom moving away, and Ed was reminded of how he used to count the seconds between lightning and thunder, when he was a child, willing a summer storm to move on. He handed Alfons a tumbler of water which Alfons took with trembling hands.

"Better now?"

Alfons looked up, his eyes swollen and rimmed red, sweat streaking down from his temples. His entire face was damp and blotchy. He nodded but Ed was not comforted in the least. He picked up the sodden flannel and examined it grimly.

Alfons glanced at it. What was there to say? Ed sat down on the edge of the bed, tossing the flannel onto the floor and out of their line of sight. He felt the stone in his hand and looked at it in his open palm.

"You know, you started coughing as soon as I took this from you. Did you notice that?"

Alfons stared bleakly at the stone.

"You'd better hold it." Ed handed it to him, closing his fingers around it, and held his hand over Alfons's fist, squeezing tightly, pressing it towards Alfons's chest. "It does have some kind of power here, now I just have to find out why and how we can use it."

Edward had brought all the papers to the bed and had them spread out, handing bits and pieces to Alfons occasionally, trying to provide him with the basic foundations for alchemy, and what his father had been doing, and the nature of the Gate. Still shaky, Alfons was having trouble focusing but did his best to provide Edward the support he seemed to need. He was interested, but he felt so ill he was having difficulty focusing. He wished he could do more, be a real partner, like he had been before.

Edward leaned over and pointed to a page of what looked like Hohenheim's notebook, covered with scrawls and arcane symbols, and a drawing of what Alfons had learned was called an "array", for implementing alchemical reactions.

"See this? My father modified this Gate array several times until he arrived at this. He added another point, and inverted the poles...it's amazing how he came up with this, it would never have occurred to me..."

Alfons cleared his throat before speaking, since it now seemed perpetually tight and sore, and clogged with mucous. His voice was husky and strained, like he was on the way to laryngytis. "You would have gotten there," he said encouragingly. "You're just as persistent as he was."

Ed's eyes flashed a little with the compiment but he pressed on, turning pages and pressing his face closer to the book. Alfons felt his usual concern for Edward's eyes, he was always squinting in the dim light, ruining his eyesight, he was sure.

"It's really late, you should rest," Alfons said, reaching to pry the book from Edward's hand.

"We don't have time for resting," Edward said. "We have to get out of here."

"You won't be any good at all if you lose your stregnth," Alfons said coaxingly. He reached out for Ed's flesh hand, lacing his fingers through his. "Come on, I saw you limping and wincing today, take off those things and have a good night's sleep...come on."

Edward turned toward him, sighed, and began to shift himself. "All right, but I'm still going to go through these notes for a while...I don't think we'll be able to get them all out of here, which means I'll have to destroy some of it, so I want to make sure I see it all."

"Fine," Alfons said, pushing himself up. He still felt weak, but strong enough to sit and lean forward to unbutton Edward's vest and shirt. Edward let him, his head tipped to the side, eyes half-shut with near-exhaustion.

"Edward..." Alfons said reproachingly as he watched Edward pull of his vest and shirt. He reached to touch the place where the flesh met the artificial arm; it looked a bit inflamed and he had no doubt it was sore. "You don't take care of yourself."

"Yeah, what would I do without you?" Edward said, a bit sarcastically, Alfons thought. He didn't like to be fawned on, so much, but Alfons didn't care. He couldn't always be the one who needed care; that was part of their deal. Alfons tugged gently at the strap that fastened the arm, and Edward unbuckled and pulled it off, making a face that suggested both pain and pleasure at its being removed. Edward rubbed at the flesh around the now-empty socket, looking at it with a mixture of interest and disgust.

He said, "I hope it doesn't get infected...that was stupid keeping it on for so long."

A minute later Edward's trousers were off and so was the leg, which Edward took great care to place gently on the floor by the bed. He leaned back against the pillows piled behind his back and sighed.

Alfons reached to rub gently at Edward's scarred shoulder. "Better?"

Edward nodded. "Mmm." His eyes were closing, and Alfons could see him relaxing, his one arm across his stomach, head beginning to fall to the side, mouth slack. Sleep stance. Alfons moved closer and placed his head against Edward's good shoulder. He listened to Edward's breath become slower and deeper, painfully aware of his own labored breathing, and moved his mouth close to Edward's ear.

He wanted to say "I love you", that was the plan, but all that came out was a sigh. He kissed Edward's cheek and lay against his shoulder again, sleep taking him quickly again.

They were welcomed to their third day in the house by a pounding on the door to their room. Ed woke first, pushing himself up onto his elbow and looking around, taking a moment to recognize where he was. He muttered "Fuck" before falling back on the pillows. "Alfons," he said, shaking him. "Someone's at the door. Alfons, come on." He pushed at him until Alfons cracked his eyes open.

"Can you go see who's there," Ed said, pushing himself up again. He looked around for his prosthetics, still a little groggy.

Alfons rose from the bed and threw his unbuttoned shirt over his long underwear. "Who is it?" he demanded of the door.

"It's Jamison," came the impatient response. "For God's sake it's already ten o'clock, how late do you people sleep? Enough of this, I'm coming in." The door swung inwards and Jamison stepped into the room. Clearly privacy wasn't at the top of his concerns for his captives.

"What is it? What the fuck are you doing barging in here like this?" Ed asked, sharp and belligerant, no doubt to make up for being caught undressed. He held the blanket around his shoulders, clasped at the neck with his hand.

"I'll dispense with the apologies, excuse me, et cetera," drawled Jamison. He was dressed sharply, as usual, as if pressed suits and clean collars were as natural to him as his own skin. His hair was precisely parted on the left, Alfons noted, and oiled down neatly, not a strand out of place. "I thought you'd like to know, we've had a reply from the doctor you summoned, he'll be here this afternoon. Also, the Director is coming, to see you explicity, Elric."

"When?" Alfons could detect a slight thrill of panic pass across Edward's face. He always liked to be prepared, he had been counting on this taking a little more time.

"Later tonight, probably, there's a long way to travel." Jamison stepped forward, peered at Edward curiously. Edward bristled, Alfons saw. Jamison said, "The Director is going to want to talk to you about the Gate so I hope you've been making good use of your father's notes."

Alfons saw Edward coil up, inside, he knew that look, how the eyes flashed, his lips parted. Suddenly Edward threw off the blanket.

"You want to see what that Gate does? Look at this." Edward indicated his arm, his leg. "This is what happens to people who go through the Gate, do you understand that? How am I going to get you to understand that it shouldn't be fucked with?"

Jamison's expression changed from arrogant to surprised. Alfons saw him register Edward's maimed body. In an objective light, it could be shocking.

"So you _have_ been through the Gate. We figured," said Jamison. "Everyone was saying that your father wouldn't use you. Interesting."

"Are you starting to get it now?" Edward demanded.

Jamison worked his mouth. "This does bring up some considerations."

"I'll use my father's notes to open a fucking Gate, and kick your ass right through it," Edward said. "Is that what you want? Not so much anymore, huh?" He raised his face to Jamison, his jaw set defiantly. "Get out of here and leave us alone. Send the doctor up when he gets here, and let me know when the Director arrives."

His frankly obnoxious bossing seemed to faze Jamison a little. He blinked and worked his mouth some more. "Don't forget your place here, Elric."

"And what would that be?"

Jamison turned on his heel and went quite quickly to the door, as if anxious to get away.

"Our employee, here by our sufference. Do remember that," he said, before leaving and shutting the door.

Herr Dr Engel examined Alfons, first listening to his chest, front and back, for a long time, then looking into every exposed orifice with his magnifier and pen light. He took his temperature and his pulse, tested his reflexes, then carefully replaced all his instruments back into his bag.

Alfons reached behind his pillow and withdrew the crumpled, dried flannel, which he reluctantly unrolled, to show the spots of blood that had by now turned almost black. Dr Engel reached for it, taking care, Alfons noticed, feeling like a leper, not to touch the actual blood. He looked at it for a moment over the rims of his eyeglasses. When Alfons glanced up at Maria, her eyes held a steady, glassy look, watching her father, while her hand rested on Alfons's shoulder. Edward also stood near the bed, his arms crossed. Sukhova was positioned by the door, listening and watching with her arms crossed. The room was hot and the clock ticked unbearably.

"So?" Edward's voice cracked into the silence in the room.

"So." Dr Engel placed the handkerchief down on the bedside table, then put a hand on Alfons's leg. "So, from what I can see, your disease is very advanced. The expectoration of blood is a sign that your lesions are hemhorraging. After that they turn to scar tissue. Even though this is an atypical tuberculosis I would say treatment at a sanitarium might help you. I'm not sure the damage you have here is quite the same, given that its source is different, but still, there are therapies they can try that can prolong your life."

"Prolong his life." Edward's voice, repeating that phrase, grinding his teeth. Alfons winced.

"That's what the doctor said at the hospital. He wanted me to come in and stay. He said that he couldn't cure me, but...maybe help a bit. For a while."

"It was the right thing to suggest." Dr Engel then placed his hand on Alfons's shoulder. His eyes were serious and sad. "You're a very young man, so I know it's probably hard to hear this, let alone act upon it and accept it. But if you go into hospital or a sanitarium for treatment, receive the right care, you might live a while yet."

Alfons looked down. "I have no money for a sanitarium."

But Edward had a more pressing question. "How long a while?"

Dr Engel shrugged. "Who's to say? The doctor who has the x-rays knows more than I can. But months can become a year or two, maybe more. They come up with new treatments all the time. I think they'd treat you with the same approach as soldiers who were injured by mustard gas during the war. Some of the serious cases are alive still, thanks to some of the doctors' efforts." Dr Engel stood, rearranged the pillows and gently pushed Alfons to lie back a bit more. "You have a bit of a fever, which leads me to believe there is some infection, mostly likely in your throat, so I'm going to prescribe an iodine tincture, which should help. I'm also going to leave you some medicine, a bromide and some morphine in a syrup--but you take them sparingly, all right? They're very strong, for when you are losing your breath, or in a lot of pain." He bent over his case and removed two small bottles and several paper packets, laid them out on the nighttable. "You mix all of these with water, just read the directions."

Alfons nodded, glancing over at the medicines on the table. Here he was, at the next stage of his illness: bedbound, medicines by his side. He sighed.

Maria stood now too, and came to squeeze his hand. "You have to rest while you're here. When you get back home, I'll come visit you and stay all day, all right?"

Alfons nodded and tried to smile at her kindness, but it was depressing to be treated with such pity. "That would be nice."

"Yes, rest above all," said Engel. "Exertion will bring on coughing and expectoration and you'll lose blood, which you can ill afford. The less you exert yourself the better. Please, though, Alfons, when you are able to return to Munich, go to the hospital, and let them treat you there. It may make a world of difference."

Alfons felt Edward hovering near him.

"That's it? That's the best news you have for him?" Edward burst out, causing Alfons to wince again.

Dr. Engel was a gentle man with expressive grey eyes and thinning hair. He sighed before answering. It wasn't the first time he'd heard it, but Edward, he realized, had never heard the diagnosis before.

Engel removed his spectacles and ran his sleeve across his eyes. He looked tired and it was very, very kind of him to come out here, all for an acquaintance of his daughter. Alfons did not want him to feel uncomfortable.

"Yes, that's the best news, I'm sorry," Engel said. "I've been practicing medicine for twenty-five years, and I've seen cases like this more times than I can count, especially since the war. People were exposed to all sorts of terrible things during that war. Those who survived injuries from the gas in the trenches, or suffered from smoke inhalation, some of them are able to get around, even work a little." He sighed. "I wish I could promise more, but this type of illness tends to affect the quality of life quite seriously. But I really do think, with rest and treatment, Alfons can live for some time. You're his friend, you can see to it that he gets the care he needs, all right?"

Edward let his head fall. "All right." This was one situation he couldn't punch his way out of. Unfortunately. He looked up again. "If you could write something...saying that Alfons needs to be admitted to hospital, it might help."

"Help what?" Dr. Engel was cleaning his eyeglasses with a small square of flannel he had taken from his bag.

Edward closed his eyes, thinking, no doubt, of the best way to phrase this. Sukhova, previously silent since the doctor had arrived, cleared her throat.

"Nothing," Edward ground out.

Edward saw Dr. Engel and Maria downstairs and to the door, Sukhova trailing close behind to remind him that he was never, ever alone in this house, ever. He threw her hostile glances but she only looked impassive and slightly pitying. He did not get the sense that she was as evil as Jamison, and yet, here she was, shadowing him.

"I'm going outside!" he announced to Sukhova, as the Engels nodded nervously to the newly installed porter--another young man in an ill-fitting suit who had appeared from nowhere--but she only nodded and followed them out, standing a distance behind, lingering on the doorstep as the doctor and his daughter made their way to his battered-looking car, a hoodless, ageing Daimler with exposed wheels that had clearly seen better days than this one spent on the unpaved road.

Dr. Engel opened the passenger door for his daughter and as she climbed in Ed offered her his arm for support. She took the opportunity to lean close to Ed.

"What is going on here?" she asked, clearly frightened. "Are you being held in this house?"

Ed grit his teeth. "Is it that obvious? They don't want you to know."

"Of course it is," put in Engel. "I don't want to know what you're involved in here, but all I can tell you is, your friend shouldn't be here, he should be in hospital." He shut the door and then walked quickly around the car to get in the driver's side. After he started the noisy engine--the car backfired several times--he added, "I am quite torn between wanting to help you and giving you a punch in the jaw, bringing my daughter into this business, whatever it is." He looked at Ed, his eyes suddenly quite fierce. "But I'm also glad I was able to see Alfons. Please, look after him."

"I will," Ed pledged. As the car pulled away, Maria turned around and gave him a grim, concerned look and a sad little wave. Before the car twisted around the drive and disappeared, he saw her mouth "FIND ME IN MUNICH!" quite clearly and emphatically. He nodded and waved back, still not sure he would. But then, they had so few friends...he probably would, if they ever made it back to Munich.

He walked dispiritedly back to the house, gazing up at the darkened windows. Sukhova stood on the doorstep, arms crossed, looking directly at him. He resolved that this place would be a pile of rubble before another day was through.

"Don't you have work to do?" he snapped at Sukhova as he entered the house.

She twisted her mouth as if biting back harsher words than she spoke. "Don't be so quick to judge, boy." She lowered her voice and whispered, "Some of us here are trying to do some good."

"Is that so?" Ed replied skeptically. He brought his face close to hers, challengingly. He had never been superb at reading expressions, but something about her eyes gave him pause. She did not look like she was lying. "What good can come out of what's been going on here?"

Her dark eyes lit up. "A world without war," she said. "A weapon so powerful, no one will use it. Don't you understand?"

Ed snorted. "You're insane. There's no such thing. People will use whatever they have, no matter how terrible."

"No, not if--"

"I've seen it, all right? Believe me, this is not a good road to go down."

Sukhova's face fell a bit, but she quickly regained composure. "I hear you're going to meet the Director. Then you'll understand."

Ed rolled his eyes. One thing this world had in common with his own was more than its share of credulous fools. People were the same everywhere. Idiots.

After being outside in the open air, Ed realized how stuffy and warm it was once back in their room. He pulled the curtains to block out some of the light that was bringing late spring heat into the room, leaving a small space between them to let the air from the open windows come in.

"They left all right, did they?" Alfons asked, his voice alarmingly husky, a sign that he had just had a coughing fit. Ed moved toward the bed and sat down beside him.

"Yeah, they're gone. Engel was angry, of course...I thought he might be. But I felt like we had no other choice. And at least now someone else knows where we are, in case..."

Alfons gave him a wary look. "You don't think we'll leave here?"

"No. We will." Ed fidgeted with his hands, trying not to fuss over Alfons. He wanted to touch his face, but felt that might put him in mind of other things, and Alfons was not up to that, obviously. He wanted nothing more than to curl up with Alfons, tear the clothes off him, even, lie naked with him, even fuck him before whatever was going to happen next. He hated feeling so unsure about what he was going to do.

Ed leaned forward and lowered his voice, for the benefit of Roman, still stationed outside the door.

"Listen, this Director person is coming tonight, and I'll see what I can find out from him. Then later, Peters and I are going to take this place down. Late tonight or early in the morning, when most of them are asleep."

"What about Roman? He'll follow you."

"I'll take care of him, and anyone else, if I have to."

Alfons made a grim face and turned his head to the side. "I wish I could help you."

"You can. I'll at least get Sukhova out of the way, looking after you somehow. She likes you, she'll come if I get her." Ed flexed his artificial hand, wondering if he could generate enough impact to smash Roman's jaw without knocking his arm out of its socket. "How are you feeling now?"

"My chest and throat hurt when I breathe in...it's scaring me a little," Alfons admitted, reluctantly. He glanced over at the medicines laid out on the table.

"Another thing...you'll take that iodine medicine stuff, but the rest of this, I'm taking with us." Ed shoved the packets of powder and the bottle of medicine into his pockets. "You can't be drugged tonight, because we're going to have to run for it. I'm sorry." He felt genuinely sorry that he couldn't let Alfons take something to relieve his pain, but there was no other way.

Alfons nodded weakly and Ed could see he wasn't entirely certain. Ed placed a hand on either of Alfons's shoulders and squeezed.

"You can do it, I know you can. I'll be there with you, and I won't leave you behind, no matter what, all right?"

Alfons nodded and closed his eyes. Ed leaned forward and lay across Alfons's chest, and pressed his palm over his heart. He sighed, listening to the harsh sounds of breath from Alfons's chest and throat. "We'll make it back to town, and go to the hospital, and you'll get better, I promise."

He felt Alfons's hand move to his back and rest there, his palm warm even through his shirt and vest. Ed moved so that he was lying next to Alfons, his arm across his chest. Alfons was still clutching the stone in his palm, but Ed was increasingly concerned about his pallor and the fact that his skin felt vaguely hot all over. When they were open, his eyes were a bit glassy, and every breath made a harsh sound. He unbuttoned Alfons's shirt and rubbed his palm gently across Alfons's chest, feeling the vibrations from his ravaged lungs, while Alfons fell off to sleep.

When the knock came at the door, Ed himself was almost drifting off, rehearsing the half-baked plan again and again in his head until he was beginning to dream that it was already in progress. He raised his head.

"Yes?"

Roman's voice came shouting through the door. "The Director's here, and you're wanted downstairs. Dress for dinner."

Dress for dinner? Ed hissed in annoyance as he got up to straighten his clothes and hair. He washed his face and pulled on his coat, then took one last close look at Alfons, sleeping more or less peacefully, before heading for the door.

"The Director has changed again," said Sukhova, meeting him at the bottom of the stairs and leading him off toward what he expected would be the dining room. They made their way down the hallway that led to the office occupied by Jamison and passed it.

"What does that mean? A new director? What do you mean again?" Ed was puzzled by the offhand way in which she said this.

Next to him, Sukhova shrugged and looked at him with a half-smile. "Each time I meet the Director, it's someone else. The first time it was even a woman."

Ed stopped in his tracks and grabbed Sukhova's arm. "Wait. What do you mean?"

She shrugged again as if she had already assimilated this strange claim. "The only constant is that the Director is never constant. The Director changes, it's the way of the Company."

Ed just stared at her. She was clearly insane.

"The Director changes constantly...what the hell are you talking about?"

She shook her head. "You'll understand after you work here for a while. The new Director is very...well, you'll see. Come on." Now she took the liberty of grabbing his arm, luckily his left because he was not paying attention, and pulled him forward. Utterly confused, Ed allowed himself to be nearly dragged, trying to organize his thoughts. Without knowing what this person was like, it wasn't easy to figure out what the best approach to take with him would be. He had to find out what he could and then prepare to blow the house up. That was a workable agenda, right?

They stopped before a pair of double doors of dark wood. Sukhova knocked lightly and one of the doors swung inwards, held by a man in what looked like a chauffer's uniform. There were people already seated around the table long table, and they rose as Sukhova and Ed entered the room. There were Jamison, Peters, Ostermann but not Strauss, and a few of the others from the laboratory that he had only seen downstairs. There were some new faces, too. He was still scanning the table, searching for who the Director might be, when a voice came from the corner of the room, and Ed turned to see the man standing by the window, smoking a cigarette.

"Edward Elric," said the voice, and it was as if he were home again. The same voice, saying his name. Ed's heart stopped, then hammered hard in his chest as the man tipped his head toward him, then came forward, beckoning Ed to meet him, holding out his hand. An ivory, long-fingered hand that Ed had gripped countless times. "A privilege to meet you," the man said, his voice cool and even slightly sarcastic, just like its original owner's.

Shaking hands was always awkward in this world. No one expected automail, and people here were disturbed by artificial limbs, he had learned early on. Ed offered his left hand, awkwardly, while the man eyed him curiously, then smiled and took Ed's hand with his own left, shaking as Ed felt floppy and unmanned.

No one had bothered to introduce the man so Ed blundered on. "So, you're the Director?"

"Yes, yes I am." The man released his hand and stepped back as if to get a better look at Ed. The dark eyes had a different look from their original owner's, but this man did not know him. "You're awfully young. And small. And you don't know how to shake hands."

Ed squinted up at him, too shocked to be offended. "What?"

"Never mind. They say you're clever, like your father. Maybe you're so clever you don't know how to behave. That's no matter." He waved his hand dismissively and held out his cigarette. The porter dove up with a crystal astray and his dropped it in. "Come, let's sit for dinner. You'll sit next to me so we can talk."

Everyone in the room returned to their seats and Ed moved as if in a dream to an empty chair next to the head of the table, where the Director sat and dropped a gold-colored cloth napkin into his lap. The Colonel's eyes turned to him, those dark eyes that used to hold many looks that Ed recognized: calculation, humor, appraisal, ambition, sometimes hope. These eyes, though the same color and shape, seemed strangely indifferent and cold. Ed would never get used to these doppelgangers; Miss Gracia and Hughes were bad enough, but he hadn't expected to see Mustang, not in this part of the world.

When he glanced around the table he saw Sukhova, far down the other end, looking almost rapturously at the Director, and noticed that same expression on the faces of others; a young ginger-haired man further down the table; a woman wearing glasses with pulled-back hair who he had never seen before; a middle-aged man with a neat goatee that he had seen in the labs below; all of them and others looked at the Director like they were looking at a king, or a film star, someone famous and important and rare. Ed did take a moment to notice that Peters looked green, pinched and ill, and that he was not looking at the Director--or at him. A bad sign for their plans. Would he have the stomach to go through with it?

The Director sat back in his chair, at ease with the room, and not the least bit disconcerted by all the eyes on him. He tipped his head in Ed's direction as the first course--a bowl of soup--was served by the porter and yet another young man he had never seen before.

"So, I hear you've been reticent to work with us?" the Director said.

Ed was not used to finding himself speechless, but it was all he could do not to gaze at the Director's pale face. His hair was black, like the Colonel's, but parted at the side and oiled into behaving like the men of this world usually wore it.

"You keep staring at me," the man said, taking up his spoon. "Do I remind you of someone?"

The question had a certain leading tone to it, almost as if he knew that he did. Ed did have the presence of mind not to give himself away, even if he didn't trust himself to speak coherently.

"Sorry," Ed forced out, picking up his spoon with a shaking hand. He struggled to still it. This was too, too weird. Had his father met this person? If he had, why hadn't he said something? Could it be that what Sukhova said was true, the Director had changed in the brief time since Hohenheim had come here?

As if reading his mind, the Director said, "I'm sorry about your father." His tone was flip and a little cool, but not sneering, as Jamison's might have been. "We didn't intend for things to go that way. The gate is unpredictable, even to him, apparently."

Ed could not force himself to eat the soup and put the spoon down.

"You killed him, forcing him to keep opening that gate," Ed ground out, beginning to feel himself again.

"As I said," the Director spooned another mouthful of soup and swallowed, "We didn't know what to expect. We thought he was just refusing to comply with our requests."

"Well you were wrong. And I say the same, it's dangerous." Ed found the courage to look at his face now. There was too much at stake for him to sit in a stupor.

"We'll have to find a way to work around that. But you will open the Gate for us." The Director put down his spoon, picked his napkin up off his lap and dabbed at his mouth.

"No I won't." Ed looked at him defiantly, reminding himself that this was not the Colonel, and he would not do anything for him.

"Yes you will," the Director said coolly. He waved his hand for one of the porters to collect his bowl. "You've conveniently come with your own pawn. As you sit here, we're making sure that he's taken care of."

Ed stood up and pushed his chair away. "Don't you hurt him--if you do, I'll never open that goddamned gate."

The Director smiled and gestured for Ed to take his seat. "Calm down. Of course we won't hurt him. I understand he's ill, so I've brought a nurse with me, she's with him right now. She'll look after him, so you won't have to worry about him and you can concentrate on your work."

Ed's stomach twisted. His hand went to his pockets, where he held Alfons's medicines. He sat down, feeling more confused and defeated than before. This Director already knew everything about them.

He took a breath. "Can you just tell me...what is it you're trying to do here?"

"It's not necessary for you to know anything aside from your own part. We need access to that Gate, and we want you to help us make more of those stones, you know exactly what I'm talking about. Unfortunately I understand that the serpent is no more, so your first job will be to figure out how to produce the gate without it."

"And...you mean to go through it? Did the others tell you what happened when someone went in?"

The Director nodded. "The fools were rash, but we'll do it right next time. I'm afraid Jamison is a bit trigger-happy. I'm sorry I wasn't here when Hohenheim was still alive, but now...we have you ."

The porter entered the room with a roast beef and began to carve it on the sideboard. Ed had to admit it smelled delicious and his appetite actually began to return in spite of himself. He told himself he had to eat to keep his strength up for the long night ahead. There would be no sleeping. He accepted the slice of beef along with a baked potato, the nicest food he'd seen in a long, long time.

He realized that the Director was watching him eat approvingly. He couldn't say the same for Peters who was still looking green over his plate.

The porter brought a bottle of red wine and began serving the guests. He poured Ed a glass and Ed sat contemplating whether to drink it. Wine tended to make him giddy and dull his senses, and he needed to be sharp tonight. He noticed the Director watching him as he lifted his own glass with his pale, slender fingers.

"Come, drink. A toast, to you, our newest team member."

Ed lifted his a bit clumsily, sloshing the wine and feeling a fool as all eyes were on him. He allowed the Director to tap his glass with his and took a sip.

"Strength," said the Director, tipping his glass at him again. "You'll need it. You're going to get to work as soon as dinner's over. I hear there is a flan."

Ed panicked. "Tonight?"

"No time like the present."

"But it's late."

"You have somewhere else to be?" the Director asked smoothly.

Ed looked away. "Alfons...I can't leave him alone all night..."

"I told you, a nurse is with him. He'll be fine. You're not going back to your room until you open a gate. How is that for inspiration?" The Director took another sip of wine, watching his face carefully. "Yes, you look inspired."

"I need to go up to the room and get my father's notes. I left some up there."

"No worries. I'll send someone up to collect them so you can get right to work." To demonstrate, he snapped his fingers and Roman appeared by his side. Within a second the Director had whispered a command in his ear and he was off.

"I'm just not ready yet," Ed tried, putting down the wine glass.

"You'll get ready." The Director shot him a sideways glance. "Get your mind off what you were planning to do tonight and think about the gate instead."

Ed's stomach flipped. He shot a glance at Peters who looked like he was about to vomit onto his full plate. So, he'd told, already? What a useless fucking idiot. Ed made his hands into fists under the table cloth, punched at his thighs. That fucking spineless moron. It was all he could do to keep himself flying across the table and throttling him.

He'd made a bad gamble. The Director sat unflappable beside him, delicately picking at his teeth with a fingernail before taking a final sip of wine.

"Now where is that flan?" he asked no one in particular.

The Mustang doppelganger personally escorted him to the cellars, along with Roman. Roman poked him in the back, giving him the uncomfortable feeling that despite the Director's cool demeanor, he had been betrayed in a bad way. Peters was nowhere to be seen as soon as dinner came to an end, fled no doubt to avoid having to look at Ed any longer. Ed resolved to deal with him later, but now that his plan to leave the house that night had been derailed, he felt unmoored. Without a plan, things seemed bleak, and Ed didn't like bleak. There always had to be a light at the end of the tunnel. He'd have to make a new one.

He was steered to the chamber where his father had died, and the lingering stench was slightly lighter than it had been the day before. The Director took up a position at the door, his arms crossed, and he looked down at Ed with what seemed to be contemptuous curiosity. Roman dumped an armful of papers and notebooks, the ones Ed had brought upstairs, onto the worktable. Ed desperately wanted to stop him and ask how Alfons was doing, but the Director was watching him. Eyes that he had once thought handsome and commanding now seemed sly and treacherous. The Director folded his arms, looking treacherous in his slim, well-tailored dark suit and impeccable collar.

"So now, Edward," he smoothed. "Here you'll stay until you are ready to summon a gate."

Ed swallowed and tried to stall, grasping for something to say. He didn't want to be left down here.

"It might take me days," he said. "I have to go through all these notes, design some arrays, experiment with how I can use the stones..."

"Take your time. Just not too long. I'll have some of our stones brought to you," said the Director. He pulled out a silver cigarette case, removed a cigarette and lit it with a gold lighter from his jacket pocket. He offered the open case to Ed, but Ed had no appetite for it and shook his head. He didn't want to take anything from this man, or give him the impression that he saw him as anything other than a gaoler. The Director took a drag off the cigarette and seemed to be waiting for something.

"Are you just going to stand there?" Ed demanded. "You're gonna get bored."

"You won't bore me," said the Director. He stepped farther into the chamber, the heels of his well-polished shoes echoing on the stones under his feet.

Just what he needed--the man hovering around him, he'd never get anything done, certainly never be able to get out of here at this rate. He thought of Alfons upstairs and felt that terrible quivering sensation in his stomach. This is where things were out of control. Alfons was a hostage to them.

"All right, all right..." Ed tried to behave as if his mind were changing, the scales fallen from his eyes. "I'll do what you want, but can you please let Alfons go? I'm asking you...telling you I'll work better if he's safely out of here. I'll be more free to concentrate."

"I have no intention of letting him go, so you may as well drop it," said the man coolly. He tapped his cigarette and bits of ash showered to the floor. "He's the only insurance we have that you won't do anything stupid. Not that you weren't thinking of trying something absurdly stupid tonight, that ridiculous plot with Peters."

Ed bent over the papers on the worktable, gripping the edge of the bench with his hands.

"That coward sold me out," he said.

The Director made a tutting sound. "Oh, no, don't be so quick to judge. Roman told us you slipped into his lab, and we questioned him. He wasn't as quick to break as you seem to think."

Ed whipped around. "You tortured him?"

The Director stepped forward again, coming so close that Ed could smell him. He smelled of cigarettes and ash and hair oil, and some musky, spicy scent underneath that, a strong cologne that reminded him vaguely of Hohenheim.

"Let's get this straight," the man said, his mouth suddenly tight, his voice sharp. He grabbed Ed's right arm and began to twist it at the elbow. He seemed unsurprised to feel that it was not flesh, even though Ed had been wearing his gloves since they met. He knew everything about him, so why shouldn't he know about the arm? He twisted the arm to the right, almost at a right angle to Ed's body, an angle the prosthetic was not designed to take.

"Stop," Ed said, trying to wrest his arm away but the Director was strong, stronger than he was.

"Let's get this straight," he repeated, his voice, cold as ice, slicing through Ed. "You don't ask questions, you do as we ask. You are not in any position to bargain."

"Don't break it," Ed said. "If you do, I won't be able to work as well."

"You're right." The man released him and stepped back. "That would be counterproductive." He turned to the doorway, where Roman lingered. Ed backed up against the bench until it dug into his spine. He held his hands up in fists, in fight position, as the Director beckoned to Roman and then gave Ed a smirk. He wanted to punch him more than anything, but Roman was by his side in a moment.

"Remove your leg," the Director commanded. "Give it to Roman, and we'll give it back when you've finished here."

"What? No!" Ed protested as Roman took a step toward him, looking bewildered.

"Do it. There's our insurance you won't be running around the house. I can see it in your eyes that you haven't committed to this and I don't have time for dealing with your recalcitrance. Just give over the leg and get to work." The Director seemed barely ruffled, but so cold in his demeanor that the man at dinner seemed like a jolly best friend in comparison. "Come on, we haven't got all night. Well, you have but I'd like to get a few hours' sleep."

He pulled a pocket watch out of his vest and flicked it open to illustrate how he'd like to go to bed while Ed stood, glowering at Roman.

The Director sighed as he snapped his watch shut. "Do it, Elric," he snapped. "I've really had enough of this posturing. You are powerless, so stop pretending that you aren't."

That was painful, and deflating. The man was right, what could he expect to do that would stop at least this little chain of events from unfolding? He just needed to get them out of here and move on. Alone, at least he could get working on something. He sat down on the nearest chair, and tossed the Director the most evil look he could manage--the man just blinked at him like an automaton--before rolling up his left trouser leg. Before detaching the leg he moved the foot, missing it already. How he hated being without it. His mouth twisted with regret as he detached it, holding it for a moment before pushing it toward Roman, who seemed genuinely baffled by the task of having to take it.

"Good grief, man, get a move on," the Director snapped at Roman. He finally wrapped his big hands around the leg, and Ed watched him leave the chamber sorrowfully. The doppelganger looked down at Ed. "So here you are. I'll have food brought down for you in the morning. I'm sure you'll find a slop pail in here someplace. When I come down tomorrow for a visit, I expect to see some genuine progress."

Ed wanted to stand but he already felt the Director's plan to diminish him working its charm. He felt so small sitting while the man towered over him.

"I still don't really get what it is you want," Ed said. "It would help if I knew."

"I doubt that," said the Director. "All I want from you is a gate, and I don't want you distracted by the goal."

"You're making a weapon with the stones," Ed said. "That's obvious. But what exactly do you plan to do with the gate?"

Mustang's doppelganger turned to leave, pulling the door behind him.

"Tell me, dammit!" Ed shouted as the door creaked closed.

The Director stopped. All Ed could see was the side of his face in shadow, through the remaining crack in the door. He hesitated as if deciding whether to tell the truth or to lie. Ed heard a puff of breath, knowing full well it could be staged, signalling the surrender of this one little bone to throw at him.

"To make money," the man said softly, as if this admission of prosaic greed was an embarrassment. He didn't move as he added, "Why else?"

Then he shut the door.


	6. Chapter 6

Alfons opened his eyes in the dim room. He found he could not sit up, and so he collapsed back onto the pillows, his head swimming and buzzing, but pleasantly, like he was under water but not drowning, a dream state. When he raised his right hand it felt heavy, but pleasantly heavy. When he tried to speak, words stuck in his throat. He wanted to ask if anyone was there, because he felt a presence near, and yet, the proper words wouldn't form. He realized that he was heavily drugged, that he knew. He turned his head slowly to the right, and saw someone sitting in the chair next to the bed, a woman of indeterminate features in the dimmed light, her arms crossed over the curve of her chest. She was leaning back and seemed to be on the edge of sleep, her eyes closed but somehow still alert. His first thought was that it was his mother, who else would it be?

He reached out his hand to touch her starched white skirt, realizing as he did so that this was not something his mother would wear. It was a nurse, all in white, complete with apron but she did not have any little hat pinned into her hair, since he wasn't in a real hospital, as he thought he might have been at first. It was still the room, in the house, in the house where he thought it very likely that he was going to breathe his last.

The nurse started at his clumsy touch, but immediately grabbed his hand in both of hers and held it on her lap.

"There now," she said. her voice was mechanical but not unkind, as if she were an automaton of a nurse, and not a real person at all. "You're waking."

He nodded his head a bit and managed to gasp for water. She moved his hand beside him on the bed and poured a glass from the decanter on the bedside table. She held up the back of his head as she tilted him forward to drink. His throat was so dry that he choked a bit, and she rubbed his chest with her hand, mechanical and practiced, efficient, a professional.

"Where did you come from?" he managed to get out, although his throat was so sore he thought it would strangle him. It hurt even to turn his head.

"I'm the nurse," she said, gently laying his head back down. She arranged the sheet and blanket, and smoothed the hair from his brow before pressing a wet cloth to it. "You shouldn't speak, you're very ill."

"I am?" he wondered. When had this happened, and how long had he been asleep or drugged, he had no idea. His last memories were of falling asleep with Edward, after the visit from Maria's father. He had no idea whether that was just the day before this dark night, or longer ago. "Edward?" he asked.

"I don't know who that is," said the nurse, and taking his wrist into her hand she pressed her fingers to his veins and felt his pulse. She was officious, but her apparent competence was somewhat reassuring.

"My friend..." Alfons managed. The nurse was sitting again, taking a glance at the little watch pinned to the pinafore strap of her apron. She had a long sharp nose, pale skin, high color in her cheeks, sharp blue eyes, and greying brown hair piled high on her head. She looked to be a bit older than his mother.

"Your friend." She sat back and crossed one leg over the other. She possessed the same officious competence that his mother had lacked, but other women, particularly nurses, he observed, had in abundance. He didn't feel nervous around her at all, then again, there were narcotics coursing through his veins.

"My friend, my Edward," Alfons sighed, unable to censor himself. "Somewhere in this house....do you know where?" he asked dreamily.

If she had picked up on the slip, she did not betray it. "I've been nowhere in this house, I was sent right up to this room to see to you." She snapped on the lamp on the bedside table, then bent over and fussed with something, then Alfons saw her sit up again, dragging a skein of yarn onto her lap. Her fingers wrapped around a pair of knitting needles.

"What're you making?" he asked her.

The nurse started clacking her needles together, and without looking at Alfons she said, "A scarf."

"For who?" Alfons wondered, and genuinely wanted to know. He brought his hands slowly to his chest, looked at them, and rested both of them there. Heavy and weightless at the same time, so curious.

"You should go back to sleep," she said curtly. "Be still and give those bromides a chance to work, you're right on the edge of pneumonia. "

Alfons sighed through his nose, trying not to swallow. The pain in his throat was horrid, yet he cared less about it than he might, because of the drugs. These were the kind of drugs that didn't really kill the pain, they just made you not care how things felt. He was familiar with them, and he liked them.

"Am I dying?" he asked, his voice a whisper.

Her needles paused in their clacking.

"Aren't we all?" she said. She left an empty space in which Alfons could feel one heartbeat pass. "But not tonight, so go to sleep."

She stood for a moment and fussed with the collar of his shirt, spreading it wider so he could breath more easily.

"What's this?" she asked, tugging at his right hand. "Why are you holding this dirty thing?" She pried open his fingers and extracted the small stone.

"...good luck charm..." Alfons muttered. "I need it."

"Don't be silly," she said, and it was gone from him.

Ed had forgotten to wind his watch, and now he was further tormented with the inability to determine just how much time was passing in the basement chamber where he was being forced to summon a Gate. The Mustang doppelganger, far more cold and evil than Ed had first supposed, had taken his left leg, and so he was forced to spend time compensating for that. He had to hop while alternately sliding a chair in front of him, approximating steps in the most ludicrously slow manner. He made it to the long table against the wall, where Hohenheim's equipment sat, already gathering dust, waiting for him to bring it to life. All he really needed were the stones and some chalk, though, to at least repair the array for the Gate, if his father's notes were reliable. He leaned over the worktable, trying to gather his thoughts and determine the best plan of action. Open a Gate and get rid of the Director in one fell swoop? Send him in and seal it up. The problem was that Ed had no idea whether that would put an end to things. It was far from clear whether this Director was the top of the organization. It was frustrating to be so totally in the dark about even the nature of the organization. How could he take it apart when he didn't know how far it went?

One lesson he had learned over the years was that knowledge is power. The more he knew about what he was up against, the better. Unfortunately, now he knew so little, and they had him over a barrel. They had Alfons, too, and now there was little he could do about that either. He pulled the chair up to the workbench and sat heavily, pulling one of Hohenheim's notebooks into his lap. There were several variations on the array to summon the Gate without a sacrifice, six to be exact, none of which he could be sure would work. One had been reworked several times, Hohenheim had clearly spent a lot of time on this one. It was complicated; Ed brought the notebook closer to his face, squinting in the dim light.

He thought he would be able to tell if the array would work, once he had drawn it. At least, he'd be able to tell if it would work at home. Here, maybe if he put the stones on each point, like he would have done at home for human transmutation, perhaps that would generate enough power. His stomach quivered, though, when he thought of Hohenheim, and how he had destroyed himself by repeatedly opening the Gates. Would that happen to him? If it did, the Director was out of luck, because they certainly weren't going to find any more alchemists any time soon. However, it wouldn't do to assume that. As much as the Director and the others seemed to know, there were obvious gaps in their knowledge.

The cellar was deafening in its silence, this late at night. No one else was around, and they had locked him in. Ed laughed bitterly to himself at the thought that a Gate might be the only way out. He'd do it too, open it and go through it, and be shot of this horrible world...except for one thing. He couldn't leave him here, he couldn't and he knew it. He supposed that they knew it too.

There was no time down here in the windowless cellar. It was like being in a prison cell deep beneath the ground. He studied Hohenheim's arrays and notes until his eyes burned, until his temples throbbed. His right shoulder was aching. He longed to lie down and sleep, and again felt needled by that pathetic thought, that he would wake up at home, that this would all be a dream. It made him feel weak to think that, and he retreated from it, albeit reluctantly. There was a certain appeal to that fantasy, it tasted nice, if only for a few minutes, although it turned bitter if he indulged it too long. Besides, if this were all a dream, then Alfons would be just a dream too, and all that would never have happened; although right now, maybe that would have been for the best.

All the uncertainties of the current situation pressed on him as he nodded off to sleep in the chair, tormented by regrets and fears. It was a half sleep, punctuated with the feeling of falling off the chair and onto the floor. He tried to pull himself up but failed at the first attempt, feeling groggy and uncoordinated without his leg, and his arm not at its best level of function. If he didn't get out of here soon, he'd be a mess even without the Gate.

The Gate. He sat on the floor and contemplated the location where it had last stood. The array that his father had used was partially destroyed now, but he could recreate it. He studied the lines, the outer rim of the array only half a meter from where he sat. Hohenheim had drawn it with chalk on the stone floor. Ed scooted closer to the array and examined it, comparing it to the sketch in his father's notebook. This was the one that had done it, with the distilled stones. Although he wasn't as strong as his father, and he didn't have the serpent's remains, it still seemed possible that it might work. He could get blood for the array. All he needed was a knife and a bowl. The Director had had all sharp instruments removed from the lab, from what he could see, but he could convince him to give him one next time he came down.

He sat beside the array and began to apply himself to restoring it.

**

"I'm here." The voice came to him as in a dream. Edward's voice, close to his ear. He felt his hand on his brow, then his body next to his as he apparently climbed into the bed and pressed his stomach against Alfons's back, pressed his face into the back of his neck.

He couldn't speak, his throat was too thick and too dry, and his chest hurt when he took a breath.

A brittle voice broke into the silence, shearing into his throbbing head. "He's sick with a fever, you're a fool to do that."

"Sssh," the figure behind him him hissed and then stroked his arm with a hand--it would have to be a right hand, and it wasn't Edward's. Alfons stiffened, too delirious to turn around, he only tried to pull away slightly. "Alfons," the voice hissed, close to his ear. "Tell me the name of the world where your lover comes from. Tell me, hmm?" He stroked his arm and then ran a crooked finger down his cheek, tenderly but Alfons felt the menace, right there. He shuddered again and used all his strength to clear his mind and push himself up with his arm. He looked over his shoulder as angrily as he could.

"Good morning, sweetheart." The man behind him sat up and stretched, running a hand across his oiled hair.

"What're you doing?" Alfons asked thickly, recoiling from him. "Who are you?"

The man climbed off the bed. "I am all things to all people," he said, rather pompously. He stepped away and looked around the room. He sniffed. "Sickrooms disagree with me, so I'll thank you to just cooperate with me so I can get on with things."

The nurse gently pushed Alfons back on the pillows and arranged them so his head was raised, which was a good thing because he thought he might faint if he sat up much longer. Alfons looked at the man, tall, dark-haired, handsome, quite exotic, not the type you see about in Germany, he looked more like an Outer Mongolian, although he was dressed in Western style, a tweed suit with a vest and it was all perfectly arranged. Even his shoes shined.

"Who're you?" Alfons asked again, squinting up at the man. Even his eyes burned and it hurt to see the light in the room.

"I'm the Director." The man was wiping his hands on a handkerchief, then he pressed it back into his breast pocket.

"Oh." Alfons closed his eyes and opened them again. The room was sort of swimming before him, the tall, pale, dark-haired man almost shimmering in the room like a dream. "Where's Edward?"

"He's downstairs, working." The Director took a step closer and peered at Alfons. "He'll be allowed to come see you when he's done what we've asked."

Alfons knew what they had asked. He was more worried about what would happen if Edward did do it than what would happen if he didn't.

"I came to visit you," began the Director, "to see how you were faring. It looks like you've taken a turn for the worse."

Alfons said nothing but continued to try to look at the Director through his dry and burning eyes, his left eye closed, right eye squinting. They felt swollen and he could only imagine how bad he looked.

"I think I've been drugged," Alfons said impulsively. "Can't think straight, I can't even open my eyes."

The Director cleared his throat. "In any case, I came to see if you could tell me anything that might help us help Edward finish our little project here. Has he said anything to you? Such as, the name of the place on the other side of the gate?"

Alfons felt his head begin to swim even more, and he felt he was falling asleep right there, right in the middle of this conversation with the strange man in the tweed suit.

"Tell me..."

The last thing he heard before he passed out was, "He's fucking useless like this. Lighten up on the sedation, I need him to be conscious."

**

The lamp had gone out in the windowless chamber some time after Ed had sat down next to the ruined array. Monitoring the amount of oil in the lamp had not been on his mind, so when the light abruptly disappeared, he felt shocked for a moment, as if some unseen person had come and smacked him in the head.

"Fucking great," he said into the darkness. The only light to be seen was at the thin crack beneath the door, a sliver of dim light from the passage beyond. He wondered if someone was stationed out there right now, or whether they had confidence that he couldn't go anywhere without his leg. They weren't off the mark if that was the case, Ed thought bitterly. He moved backwards across the floor with his hands behind him, pushing himself off on his right leg, in the direction of the worktable. When he hit one of the legs of the table with his spine, he turned around onto his knee, placed his hands over the edge of the table, and pulled himself up. Leaning over the table for balance, he reached out blindly in both directions into the pitch black to search for the lamp and the small tin of lamp oil that he had seen earlier. He had no idea if there were matches in the chamber.

Groping about, he cursed the old mansion cellar for not being electrified like the rest of the house. He managed to locate the lamp but not the oil or matches and swore elaborately into the darkness. There wasn't any hope of being able to do this alone. He got down on the floor again and travelled slowly to the door, for once hoping it was guarded.

He knocked. "Hello? Anyone out there?"

There was a kind of grunt or grumble, and Ed knew that one of the paeons was there, probably sitting on the floor and sleeping against the wall.

"What is it?" It was Roman's voice.

"Roman!" Ed tried to sound friendly and relieved. At least he knew the guy's name.

"What do you want?" He sounded irritable; Ed figured he had probably guessed correctly that he had been asleep.

"The lamp went out in here and it's pitch black. Can you open the door and help me light it?"

Roman grumbled again and waited a moment. Ed figured he was deliberating on whether it would be a breach of his orders to open the door. He'd probably been told not to open it under any circumstances until he was told.

"I don't know."

That was what he came up with after deliberating for two solid minutes? Ed slapped his forehead in frustration. The stupid were sometimes harder to work with than the intelligent. It was less fun, in any case.

"Please." Ed tried to sound as unthreatening as possible, and consciously left out following that please with idiot. "If I can't see anything I can't work, and the Director will probably be checking on me soon." He even tried to infuse his voice with a bit of fear, which really wasn't much of stretch. Since it was clear that Roman feared the Director and Jamison, he could perhaps establish a bond on this common ground. He hammered down the final nail. "Please, help me. I don't want to disappoint him."

"All right, goddammit." He heard a key in the door and scooted back away from it so that Roman wouldn't trip right over him. The dim light spilling in from the hallway cut a large arc of illumination into the room, but the workbench area was still in near total darkness. Roman pulled a box of matches out of his pocket, lit one, held it up and went over to the workbench. He found the lamp and the tin of oil, all the while glancing back at Ed frequently to make sure he wasn't moving. Ed didn't bother trying to bolt; he knew he couldn't. Roman poured the oil into the lamp and replaced the glass before lighting it.

"There," said Roman. "Can you get on with it now? I'm just as eager as you are to get out of this damn cellar."

Ed looked up at Roman from the floor, hoping he looked as small as he felt in his current condition. He hoped Roman would take pity on him.

"Can you help me get over there?" He pointed at the workbench.

Roman twisted his mouth, looking both displeased and conflicted. Finally he moved behind Ed, and roughly shoved his arms under his shoulders, lifting him up as if he weighed nothing, and brought him to the workbench. Ed pretended to struggle to remain standing as he gripped it with his left hand.

"Thanks," he said. "I'm having a really hard time here without my leg...you wouldn't happen to know where it is, would you?"

Roman grunted and shuffled his feet a bit. "I can't get it back for you if that's what you're after. It's in Jamison's office."

"Oh." Well, that was easy enough, finding out where it was. However, getting there right now would be impossible.

"Sorry, kid," said Roman, clearly somewhat sorry. "Just following orders, and they're the ones who pay me."

Ed tried another tack. "You know what they want me to do, don't you? They want me to open up more gates."

"That's not my business."

"It could blow this place apart...remember when the whole house shook a couple of days ago? It could be like that again, but worse. And you saw what happened to that guy they sent in."

"As I said, not my business."

"What is your business? Just the muscle, no brain?" Ed was getting agitated now. He had to find a way to use this guy, but he was proving to be an inconveniently loyal minion. "If this house goes up, you're going with it."

Roman pressed his hands downwards. "Sssh, they'll hear you."

"I don't care if they hear me!" Ed said, letting his voice carry. "They're breaking about a hundred laws right here, and you're a part of it."

The lackey looked around nervously, then shrugged. "Look, a job's a job."

"You're getting paid to abduct people!"

Roman looked decidedly uncomfortable with these concepts, as if he had never considered them before, which confounded Ed, but he pressed on.

"Look, just get me my leg back, I need it." Ed almost pleaded. He really did want it back, if he could stand on his own two feet, this would be more bearable. "Get it back for me and the rest might not happen."

Roman blinked. "What do you mean, the rest?"

Ed pretended to be reluctant to break the news, and looked away with feigned regret before turning to look Roman square in the eye. "I heard the Director and Jamison talking yesterday about who they were going to send through as a test subject once we manage to open another gate...and they seem to have settled on you."

The man looked shocked for a moment, then skeptical. "Why would they say that in front of you?"

"Why would they think I'd care?" Ed asked coldly. "And I don't, except you can help me stop it."

"Why wouldn't I just run?"

"You could. But before you do, you might want to save a few lives, you know, for posterity."

Roman blinked again. Ed realized that the man had a lot more thinking to do than he was used to, and hoped fervently that he had appealed sufficiently to his better nature. He wasn't brilliant at reading people, but he thought he had seen, earlier that night, a flicker of decency in the man's eyes when the Director had forced him to take Ed's leg away. Grovelling with that moron was not an uplifting experience, and he hoped that it was worth it as Roman left the room and locked the door without another word.

**

Ed spent the next couple of hours going over the contours of the ruined array with chalk on the floor of the cellar. His body was beginning to ache from being on the cold stone floor for so long, and he was becoming more bitter by the minute, anxious to have Jamison or the Director come in so he could at least have some word about Alfons. He tried not to dwell upon the fact that this entire situation was all his fault, and worried that Alfons would have been better off if they had never met. Another part of him ached to be in his presence; he cursed his own lack of focus and applied himself to perfecting the array. The slightest flaw could mean failure and there wasn't time for that.

The door opened, as he knew it would at some point, although for now he couldn't judge whether he had been down here six hours or twenty. The Director and Jamison entered the room, along with a lackey, not Roman, and another person. The lackey was dragging the fourth person, who was stumbling behind, and it took Ed a moment to register who it was. His heart climbed to his throat; Alfons was standing there, shakily, his eyes barely open. His hair was sticking up in all directions, his cheeks flushed bright red, and his mouth looked red and sore as well. Clearly he had a fever. His eyelids struggled to stay open and it looked like he was struggling to focus as he squinted and tried to train his view on the floor.

"Alfons!" Unable to spring forward, Ed sat on the floor and looked up at the Director and Jamison challengingly. If they did something to hurt Alfons, he would hurt them, badly, somehow.

"We thought it might help if you saw him, so here he is," said Jamison smoothly.

"Alfons, are you all right? Say something," Ed nearly begged.

"Edward?" Alfons appeared delirious, peering down at the floor. Finally hitting his mark, his eyes widened a bit. "Where's your leg?"

"They took it," Ed said. "To keep me here. But don't worry, I'm all right. How are you doing?"

Alfons nodded and his knees buckled, only to be helped up again by the henchman, or whatever he was. Did they have an endless supply of these? Ed wondered bitterly. It occurred to him that Roman could be halfway back to Munich by now, for all he knew, and his gamble will have failed to pay off.

Ed turned to Jamison and the Director again. "Bastards! Can't you see how sick he is? Take him to a hospital!"

"He'll be fine," said the Director. "We just thought you'd like a reminder that the sooner you do what we want, the better for you, and for him."

Ed glared at the Director, despising him. At this moment it was easy to forget who he looked like--Mustang would never have treated him this way. Ever. It was a welcome reminder, because it suddenly steeled his resolve. He looked up at the Director and held his gaze.

"I need a sharp knife and a bowl, and the purest stone you have. Give me two hours and I'll open your gate for you."

The Director nodded. "Good boy. No need to waste any more time. I'm glad you've seen reason."

"Let's just get this over with," Ed scowled. He spared one more glance for Alfons, his eyes were closed and his skin looked white and clammy. "Just get him back to bed." He paused before resorting to begging, but he would do it for Alfons. "Please."

The Director motioned to the lackeys and led them from the room, and the door clicked and latched behind them. Ed's stomach was in knots; having seen Alfons like that upset him more as the minutes wore on. This wasn't just a bluff; he had to get Alfons out of here as quickly as possible, and if opening a gate was the only way, he would have to do it. It was what he did when it was open that was most important.

There was no god he served, and he had no one to pray to, so he could only finish the array and will that moron Roman to come back with his leg.

The Director had followed them back to the room upstairs. Alfons could only vaguely make out his muttering to Sukhova, who had suddenly joined them. The two of them seemed to be arguing back and forth, her higher voice and his deeper one. She sounded as if she was pleading, and he was turning her down. He was literally being dragged, his feet barely touching the floor, between two unknown men. When they reached his room he recognized it mainly by the heat and the sickroom smell--the fire had been lit and it was much warmer than the rest of the house. The nurse had demanded that he sweat out his fever, and sweating it he was. He felt his soaked shirt and trousers clinging to his skin as they tossed him back onto the bed. The room spun as he lay on his back across the bed. Someone was unbuttoning his trousers. He didn't remember how they had gotten on him and he pushed feebly at the hands working on him.

"More awake now are we?" It was the Director again, his face only inches from his, he could feel his breath against his face. His face burned, and his eyes, and he struggled to open them. The hands finished unbuttoning his trousers and he felt them touch him, and he blinked in surprise. The hand--he was pretty certain that it belonged to the Director--wrapped around him and pulled gently, up and down, as if he intended to pleasure him. It was entirely confusing. Alfons closed his eyes again, getting aroused in spite of his confusion and sickness.

"What're you doing?" His own voice came out as sort of a gasping whine, unfamiliar. "Stop...."

"Don't you like this?" The Director's face came closer, then his other hand pushed the wet fringe of hair from his brow. "I'm trying to make you more comfortable, I promised your dear Edward, didn't I?"

"Stop," Alfons moaned, too weak to push him away.

"Oh, you're lovely, I see why he likes you," purred the Director, still working on him, gently and sensually, with a tinge of cruelty. His other hand roamed over Alfons's face, traced his nose and his lips. "What a beauty you must be in full bloom. Let's get you well, shall we?" The Director stroked his eyebrow with his thumb. "Tell me the name of the world on the other side of the gate, I want to help him, and you, but to do that I need to know."

Alfons swallowed as the Director's hand cupped and stroked his balls. It felt good, and horrible, at the same time. He knew he was terribly aroused and his stomach twisted with guilty desire.

"...ask him yourself."

"Tell me now, Alfons," the Director said. "I know he won't tell me, like his father before him. They don't understand that we're trying to help."

"No." The hand on his crotch was warm and soft, and now it pressed against him, just hard enough.

"You're sure?"

Alfons swallowed and nodded. Lying on his back was finally getting to him; he felt the beginning of a coughing fit start to coil in his chest. He raised his head slightly, trying to fend it off, but a hand suddenly slapped him across the cheek. He started to cough and could see nothing, before he felt a hand clamp over his crotch, beginning to squeeze. He lost his breath, twisting to try to face downwards, as the man's hand clamped on him.

"Tell me now or you're dead before dawn."

And so he choked it out, feeling blood trickled over his lip. He heard a gasp and someone protesting, a woman's voice, the nurse or Sukhova, probably, but he just reeled back, the room spinning again. The hands were gone from him and he pushed himself over onto his stomach to cover his exposed crotch and to cough fitfully into the bed. He couldn't hear what anyone else was saying after that, but he did hear footsteps, and the door slammed. Eventually he pushed himself onto his elbow and saw the blood on the white sheet. Exhausted, he let his head fall again.

He struggled against oblivion, this time, aware that his one hope my still be in the room. Still on his front, he pushed himself up onto his elbows, wiping the blood from his mouth. She was still there, Sukhova, standing by the door, looking small and shocked and maybe even angry.

It took a lot of effort on his part to make sure his eyes locked with hers, to make sure that she registered his disappointment and disgust. She was a good person, he could tell. He held her gaze until her own fell. She looked away, then back again, then she nodded once, sharply, quickly, before leaving the room.

Then he buried his burning face into the bed and prayed that she was really on his side.

In the cellar, the lamp threatened to go out again. Ed's heart hammered as he fussed with the array one last time. Hohenheim had done all the work. He glanced at the sketch in the notebook again and again, trying to think of anything he could do to alter it to get the result he wanted, which was to open it, let the Director get in, and seal it up. His father had gotten closer to controlling the gate than anyone ever had. He shivered a little, from the lack of warmth in the room and the idea of the task before him. He was not as talented as Hohenheim and he knew it. The gate could easily get out of control, but he had to try.

What the Director claimed was the purest stone they had, manufactured at the lowest possible temperature, was in the middle of the array. Smaller, less pure stones were set in the seven points. Even in this cold, dark place the stones seemed to glow slightly, and hum, and when Ed touched them, they had that strange warmth, like the one that he had left with Alfons. He had forgotten to check on whether he had it with him when they were down there, and that caused him worry too. He was fairly certain that the stone was helping Alfons somehow, and if that were true, maybe they could use that to cure him of his illness. His mind circled this thought, grasping at ideas.

Roman had silently brought him the bowl and knife not long before. If he planned to bring him his leg, he had not indicated as much. Ed scraped at the array with the knife, perfecting it. All it needed was polish, he thought, and he could frame it. He felt nauseated with anxiety, worrying that the gate would bring the house down before he could get to Alfons and get him out of there. He pulled his arm across his stomach, sat on the floor by the array, and waited.

There was a hiss in his ear. "Ssssh. Wake up...sssh."

The feminine voice pulled him from sleep. He couldn't remember dreaming but it was difficult to surface.

"Be quiet," the voice admonished. As he woke, he realized it was Sukhova. He struggled to open his eyes and she was there, kneeling by the bed. "The nurse asked me to watch you for a bit, so..." She bit her lip and looked toward the closed door. "I'm giving this to you. Know how to use it?"

Alfons felt her take his hand and wrap his fingers around something hard and heavy, wooden and metal. He knew instantly that it was a gun and his eyes widened.

"No," he admitted. It was a smallish pistol but it was still much heavier than he would have thought when he raised his hand.

"Here." Sukhova put her hand over his and raised the gun. She opened the chamber to show that it was full, six bullets. "Six shots, that's all you get, so aim true."

Now there was an admonition...he'd never aimed a gun in his life.

"You have to cock the barrel, here," she showed him. "Then pull the trigger, that's all there is to it."

He blinked and stared at the gun, pushed himself up onto his elbow to contemplate it.

"So there you go. You have to get out of here." Sukhova's mouth was a thin, straight line, and her eyes looked strained. Now she looked small and birdlike, her usually neat hair a bit wild, hairs straying from the hairpins.

"Why are you helping me?" he asked. "I thought...you believed?"

She swallowed. "I don't know," she said. "All I know is, you and your friend need to leave, and I don't want to feel like I didn't do anything to help." She pushed herself up and stepped back from the bed, composing herself to appear more businesslike again. "Put it away for now."

Alfons looked around himself and settled on placing it between the mattress and the bedspring. His head felt much more clear than it had for a while, and he sat up and drank some of the water sitting on the bedside table. Feeling his own cheek, he felt that his fever must have subsided, or mostly so. His eyes still felt swollen and ached, but generally he did feel a lot better.

Sukhova was watching him. "They were drugging you," she said. "I think that was making you sicker."

"Oh." Alfons looked at his hands, which still shook a bit from the illness...or was that the drug? Now he didn't know. He had a vague memory of the Director grabbing at him and felt his cheeks burn once more. Then the distinct memory of himself saying the word, Amestris. He covered his face with his hands.

"You were drugged," Sukhova whispered gently. "Don't blame yourself."

Behind his hands Alfons cherished the darkness for his aching eyes. Suddenly killing the Director with that gun did not seem like a bad idea at all.

The door to the cellar chamber opened as Edward was beginning to consider the unlikely prospect that he had been forgotten. His heart pounded against his chest as Roman came through the door, but something about his bearing was unnatural, as if he were being pushed, and Ed's heart sank immediately. Jamison and the Director were behind him, with another one of those lackeys from before. Under the Director's arm, Ed saw his prosthetic leg, tucked casually like a rolled up newspaper.

"Well done," said the Director, addressing Ed as he sat on the floor. "You managed to develop a confederate. I am surprised that you were willing to risk yet another person to your selfish plans, you seemed so put out by Peters taking pains on your behalf, but here we are again. Jamison caught this cretin creeping out of his office with this." He held the leg up. "I'm not going to say I am disappointed; your father was the same, trying to the end."

He dropped the leg onto the stone floor and it clattered. Ed moved onto his hands and knee to reach for it.

"No." The Director put his foot on the leg, considered it a moment, then raised his foot and stamped on the knee joint. It obediently snapped in half after the second go, the exposed wires breaking free.

"Bastard!" Ed exploded. Helplessness washed over him and he struggled to push it away.

"I prefer you this way, to be honest," the Director said. "You're much more humble now, aren't you? In Amestris you were someone, I'll bet. But here, you are nothing. Not even your father's son, not anymore." The Director's voice flattened, but he smiled at having said the name, his surprise.

"Who are you?" Ed choked out.

"I'm just a man with ambitions, but I'm not evil if that's how you choose to see things. That's all you need to know."

"But..." Ed looked pointlessly at the space the serpent had previously occupied. He had never felt that he had to struggle much with what was good and what was bad; he felt like he knew, that actions spoke louder than words. "You made my father kill his own child," he said finally. "I think you knew."

The Director kicked at the ruined leg; it moved closer to him but there was no point in putting it on now, it was smashed. His face was inscrutable. "Do you mean that monster? What do you expect me to say? Something villainous and dramatic? The best part was getting him to bathe in its blood? How was that?" He paused and looked at Ed as if he were amusing himself. "Regrettably messy, but it had to be done."

"You're insane."

"Don't get sentimental, kid. It's just business, and you have an opportunity to play a part in history. Now how about the gate?"

Ed's head was beginning to swim. "Who are you?" he demanded. "Why do you look like him?"

The Director paused, still looking thoughtfully amused. "People have asked me that before." He pulled the lone chair in the room closer to Ed and sat down. This time he was not menacing, he seemed to take on a air of nostalgia, his eyes unfocused. He looked at Ed but did not see him, only reached up to unself-consciously stroke away the hair from his face.

"The best I can tell is, it seems to be an uncontrollable side effect."

"Of what?" Ed asked, breathless for the answer.

The Director withdrew his hand and laced his fingers together. "Of touching the Gate...the first time I did it, nearly two years ago, I lost my mind for a while." He crossed his legs carefully, as if to preserve the crispness of his suit.

"Who opened it for you?" Ed had almost forgotten to be afraid now. He was so curious...and then he realized who it had to have been.

The Director nodded. "He was working for us on his own volition, back then. Before he changed his mind and got squeamish about our methods. He lacked the nerve, he only did it once before he swore off it...unfortunate collateral damage, or associated costs, if you will. It took us long enough to track him down after he ran off. "

"You mean, you used people." Ed did not dare to take his eyes from the Director's face.

"The energy required to summon the gate was tremendous, before we had stones, before we really understood about Hohenheim's nature, before we had the serpent..." He trailed off, his eyes dilated in the dark, deep, inky pools, almost lost. "It was the most beautiful and terrifying thing I had ever seen. Ever since, I seem to take on the physical properties of other people, people I assume exist on the other side of the gate, and it shifts occasionally, when I come into contact with someone who will be important, or someone who has connection to the other side of the gate. Isn't that amazing? It has led me to consider some interesting ideas about how to control the gates."

"It's so amazing and you can only think about how to make money off it." Ed's tone became sharp again.

The Director shook his head. "You misunderstand our mission. We will become rich, yes, but we will end all war."

"No you won't," Ed said. "Trust me."

"Why should I trust your prognostication on this? You're only a child."

Ed felt weary. Why should he indeed? Why would anyone listen to a kid? It didn't matter what he said, when people had ambitious plans, whether they were evil or good, sane or insane, there was no way to stop them aside from force.

He swallowed, his throat felt sore and dry. He was tired and he couldn't last down here much longer without some action. He glanced over at his leg again, his stomach twisted and then rose to his throat. He couldn't bring the house down now, he'd never be able to get out of here fast enough, not if he had to get Alfons out too.

"So, let's summon a Gate," he said, rubbing his hands together.

"Yes, let's." The Director rose to his feet, put his fists on his hips and admired the transmutation circle.

He couldn't do it, he couldn't. But then he did. He had used to gun to lead the nurse into the bathroom, then wedged a chair under the doorknob from the outside. He apologized the entire time, but she had drugged him, he told himself, over and over. His head became more clear with each second that he acted. The fever had broken and now he had such clarity compared to that fog he'd been in for how long? A day or two? He had no idea. He could only vaguely recall the visit to the cellar, and Edward on the floor, his prosthetic leg gone, and that was it. He was going to save him.

He had hastily dressed and grabbed the stone the nurse had taken from him and placed on a table. He was about to flee the room when Sukhova had appeared. Regrettably. He did battle with himself for just a moment before holding the gun up. She nodded and left the room quickly, he let a few heartbeats pass before opening the door. The guard was there, a man in a suit with cuffs too short at his ankles and sleeves, he was just a man, not a beast like that Director, like Jamison. He steadied his hand as he held the gun at his side, determined not to raise it unless the man tried to stop him.

Unfortunately, he did.

"Don't, please." The man's voice quavered as he raised his hands. "I'm just doing my job."

Another voice came from behind him. "You're not a fighter, Heiderich. You're a scientist. You search for answers, you don't kill."

It was Jamison, coming up the stairs, his voice cool and calm as if he was certain that Alfons would not fire the gun.

"What about you, Jamison?" Alfons asked, his voice shaking. He held the gun on the guard. "What are you?"

"Really, Heiderich, you are proving to be more trouble than you're worth." Jamison seemed impatient. He pulled out his watch and snapped it open. "They're nearly ready for the Gate. Get back in your room, now."

"NO!" Alfons turned impulsively from the guard and trained the weapon at Jamison, still standing at the top of the stairs. "I'm not going back to that room, I'm leaving and I'm taking Edward with me."

He felt movement behind him and whipped around, smashing the guard in the side of the face with the gun, by accident. He stepped back and pointed the gun at him again.

"Don't come any closer."

Jamison's voice came from behind now. "Roberts, please put him out of commission, we don't have time for this."

Alfons met the guard's, Roberts's, eyes. The man's hands were raised again, and he was less than two feet away. If he shot him, he could easily kill him, he realized. He wouldn't miss anything important at this range. His hand felt more steady now, feeling the power that came with holding a deadly weapon. He stood up taller.

In a flash, the guard lunged for the gun. Alfons didn't think before pulling the trigger. His own heart nearly stopped as the report from the gun threw his hand back. He stood, holding it, his heart pounding, and the sound of static rushed in his ears. He had had no idea how it felt to fire a gun and he shook for a moment, surrounded by the smell of burnt chemicals. The bullet had hit the man in the foot, and Alfons did cherish a feeling of relief that he hadn't killed him. But the man was down, curled over himself and cursing.

Alfons turned to see Jamison looking at him, surprised.

Alfons didn't give him time to react. He cocked the pistol and held it to Jamison's temple.

"Take me to the cellar. Now."

"Are you sure?" asked Jamison. "There will be others there, you won't get far. Maybe you should just run now, I'll let you go if you put down that gun. Go ahead, I'll open the door for you, and you run. As easy as that."

"No. Not without Edward."

"He's too important to this project, they won't let him go."

"It doesn't matter what they want. I'm taking him." Alfons had never heard his own voice so steely and certain. For the moment, he was convinced he would not, could not fail. He had just shot someone in the foot. His hand was steady now. He would have felt bad about killing the guard--he was just a lackey--but he wouldn't regret, he realized, if he had to kill Jamison to save Edward.

Jamison began to move slowly down the stairs as Alfons poked the gun into his back. He was a slight man, much smaller, and for the moment he held no fear that he could overpower him. Blindsiding the guard had been a happy accident, but he was empowered now, and animated by something well beyond physical strength.

As they made their way down the hallways towards the cellar, Jamison began to visibly shake with nerves, a fact that was not lost on Alfons. He was pleased.

"So what's your plan for when we get down there?" asked Jamison as they crossed the courtyard.

Alfons declined to answer, deciding that it was more ominous and seemed much more threatening than his actual answer, which would have been, he had no idea.

"This is interesting," Jamison said conversationally. He looked back over his shoulder. "We didn't think much of you, we counted you out as a weakling."

"Looks like you were mistaken," said Alfons. He pushed the gun into Jamison's back and moved him toward the door to the hallway that led to the cellars. At this moment he felt no fear, and was vaguely thrilled with himself. "Come on, let's go."

The door to the chamber was open, and Edward sat on the floor on one knee, crouched over it, seemed to be refining it with an awl. Alfons pushed Jamison into the cell. The Director was there, standing over Edward. Peters was here now, too, positively white and shaking, and holding a glass jar with several stones in it, shuddering so hard that the stones rattled against the glass. A few others he didn't recognize, and Sukhova, small and nearly hidden in the small group, standing on her toes to peer between two of the men. Another lackey had the guard Roman pressed up against a wall, and Roman looked terrified. Surveying the floor, he saw Edward's smashed leg--disappointed that that hadn't been a hallucination--and a large earthen bowl and knife laid on the floor beside Edward. When they entered Edward looked up, his eyes blurry and tired. When he spotted Alfons he caught his eyes. Alfons nodded almost imperceptibly but their eyes met. They exchanged information: Edward was ready to do something, Alfons was all right. For good measure he shoved Jamison a bit farther into the room with the end of the gun, then removed it, but still held it in his hand. He saw Edward take that in, saw the slightest flicker of a smile pass his pale lips, as he bent again over the array.

"Are you almost ready, Elric?" demanded the Director.

"Yes." Edward sat back and looked at it, then pulled the bowl toward him and began to roll up his shirtsleeve. Everyone just stood at watched.

"Good." The Director looked at Jamison. "Give me the bag."

Jamison gave the Director a look that suggested he wasn't at liberty. "It's in my office, I--"

"What the hell did you come down here for without it?" the Director asked irritably. He was impatient now, like a caged animal wanting to get out.

"I wasn't at liberty," said Jamison coolly, although Alfons could tell he was a bit humiliated. "Heiderich had a gun to my head."

The Director frowned. "Did he?" He spared a glance for Alfons. "And what exactly were you hoping to accomplish by that?"

Alfons held up the gun and pointed it at him. "Edward and I are leaving."

The Director blinked. "Are you? Well, then, maybe you are. We'll see. First, Edward has to open the Gate. Then we'll see what happens next."

Edward stirred again, Alfons could see him struggling with the instinct to stand but he was stuck on the floor. He said to the Director, "You have no idea what's going to happen, do you? I don't either."

"Oh, I've made some preparations." The Director looked at the lackey by the door. "Go up to Jamison's office. There's a cloth bag on his desk, bring it here at once."

The man disappeared at a run, and the rest of them looked down at Ed and the array.

"What are you planning?" Ed asked.

"You'll see." The Director put his hands in his pockets and walked idly around the array. "So intricate, beautiful. I've never seen such work. Is it time for the blood?"

"First the stones." Peters brought Edward the jar and wordlessly handed it over, and Edward placed several stones on the array at what appeared to be symmetrical points, and readjusting some stones that had already been there. He examined and discarded two, tossing them aside like so much dross. Then, Edward looked down at the bowl beside him and reached for the knife with his artificial hand. It closed clumsily around it and Alfons could see beads of sweat begin to stand out on Edward's face as he tried to get a tight, steady grip. He held out his left arm and Alfons saw his gaze turn to steel as he drew the knife across the upper part of his forearm. Blood began to drip, and he held it over the bowl. Alfons admonished Edward in his mind to be careful, to not weaken himself, and his hand squeezed the gun more tightly, appreciated its weight as he held it against his leg.

The errand boy returned with a small sack of almond-colored roughspun cloth, and presented it to the Director. Without saying thank you, the Director undid the tie on the sack and looked inside. Then he closed it again and jangled it next to his head, as if listening for it to speak.

"What's in there?" Ed asked, still holding his dripping arm over the bowl.

"I shall tell you." The Director enjoyed his oracular flourishes, Alfons noticed. He was getting excited, however, preparing himself for the adrenaline rush that would allow him to flee, with Edward...in his arms? He didn't know, but they would be going soon, he was sure of that.

The Director fondled the bag but did not open it again. "This contains things from Amestris," he announced, and Alfons saw Ed wince at the sound of his homeland's name on the man's tongue.

Edward regarded the bag with curiosity, and, Alfons thought, some fear. "Things like what?"

"My theory is that the Gate may lead to different exit points, or that it is possible to get stuck inside it. It is also possible to be killed inside it, as we witnessed several days ago. I thought perhaps having some items that would draw me to Amestris would help me to get through the Gate, attracting me to it."

Edward grunted as if he thought that it might not be such a bad idea. "But--what's in it?"

"Some bones...of Hohenheim, and the serpant. Peters, give me some of the best stones..." He took several and placed them in the bag" "Even though they were made here, Hohenheim made it clear that they amplify alchemic power, perhaps it will help protect me. And..." Here the Director stepped over and crouched down by the bowl, now filled at the bottom with Edward's blood. He stuck his index finger into the blood, then brought it to his face, where he drew a line down his nose, and then across the bridge of his nose and each cheek, then daubed his lips with it, before wiping it on his immaculate suit. "And now, Amestrian blood."

Alfons watched Edward regard the Director with a mixture of horror and contempt. He scowled and shook his head.

"You'll end up dead, you idiot," he said. He lifted the bowl of blood and dipped in his own fingers, moving around the array he placed daubs of it in certain places. He certainly looked like he knew what he was doing. His face was set in weary concentration, his mouth working what Alfons assumed were silent curses against the Director and his foolishness.

The room remained quiet, aside from the occasional whimper from Roman, still pressed against the wall, his arm twisted behind his back. There was a scuffle as he tried to pull away, but was immediately subdued by a punch to the head. He reeled back toward the wall, slid down it and sat, panting. Edward glanced at him and looked away again, and Alfons was sure he caught a flash of regret that time, which puzzled him. Edward began to work more furiously, precise but forceful, as he placed the blood at special points on the array and adjusted the positions of the stones once again. Alfons felt his heart beating in his head, losing some of the clarity he had achieved before. He had no idea what was going to happen, and a flood of terror washed over him. He stopped himself from shaking by gripping the gun even tighter. He wasn't sure what he was going to do next, but if the Director attempted to pull Edward through the gate--that was his greatest fear--he would not hesitate to shoot him.

Edward sat back on his bottom and looked up at the Director.

"It's ready."

The Director, now, looked almost frightened, then thrilled. He stepped forward and stood next to where Edward sat.

"Activate it then." He looked around at the others in the room, and motioned for the guard by the wall to bring Roman forward. "Our guinea pig," he said, sparing Roman not a glance. Alfons felt ill as Edward looked up and caught his eyes. He saw Edward swallow, and tilt his head slightly toward him and Roman, as if to say, Don't let him. Alfons nodded back and twitched the gun a bit, to show that he was ready for whatever was about to happen.

Edward got onto his knee, leaned forward and placed his hands on the array. The first thing Alfons thought of was that design carved into the tabletop of their flat, the one that did nothing and had made him worry that Edward was insane. This time, however, the huge array began to buzz with static, and blue light glowed within its lines, faintly at first, as if it were electrified and being turned on, then more strongly, as some kind of energy began to leap from it. The pattern glowed and danced with light, and gave off a smell like burning and ozone. Alfons stood transfixed, and no one in the room moved. Except Edward...he moved back, crawling backwards away from it to end two meters away, his hand still on the floor as he looked up at it.

The Gate. It appeared with a sound like a meteor hitting the earth, a metallic boom as it seemed to spring from the cellar floor. It seemed to be made of a dense metal and its contours were wrought with designs and shapes that it took Alfons a while to parse in the darkness. It did not glow, it almost seemed to suck light in, what little there was of it in the cellar.

The door, which seemed to have no opening, suddenly split in two and parted, revealing only darkness. Alfons shuddered, transfixed. He felt that if he had the choice, he would not choose to go through there in a million years. It wasn't heaven, was it? If it was a gate to anything, it had to be hell. This still seemed more plausible to him than a portal between worlds. Yet the Director approached it, motioning for the guard to bring Roman closer. Roman was kicking and screaming and begging as the Director held on to his other arm. Together he and the guard dragged him closer. Alfons stepped forward, pushing Jamison and someone else he didn't recognize out of the way, he held the gun trained on the Director.

"Let him go."

The Director turned to look at him, surprised. "You're wasting our time, stop this."

"Let him go or I shoot you." Alfons's heard his voice crack but his hand did not shake.

The Director seemed frozen in indecision for a moment. He looked back at the doors, no doubt trying to calculate how long they would stay open. Alfons knew there was no way of knowing.

"Go yourself, you coward," Alfons said.

The doors did not close, but the gate seemed to shimmer for a moment, as if threatening to lose substance. They waited, everyone breathless. Alfons could see Edward on the floor beside the gate, sitting on his bent knee, his hands on the floor. He looked not afraid but in awe, his lips slightly parted, still, as if he were listening to something. Then Alfons saw his lips move, and heard, although it was almost a whisper, it reached across the room and the sound vibrated at the gate as if he had said it aloud.

"Al."

The Director looked at the gate longingly, clutching the bag to his chest again. He pushed Roman aside roughly, letting him go. He looked at Jamison.

"I'm going. I'll get them to send me back, and then our work can really begin."

"Godspeed," said Jamison, and Alfons thought he detected a note of cool irony in his voice.

The Director stepped forward into the gate, and stood within the doorway, peering into the darkness within. Alfons could now detect some movement inside, although it was dark against darkness. Alfons looked at Edward, and his hands were now in fists pushed against his eyes. He wanted to call out to him but he didn't want to move until that thing was gone, he couldn't move while it was here, it prohibited him. He still had his gun trained at it.

The doors closed with an impressively loud creak and were shut, yet the gate stayed, looming, reaching the low ceiling and seeming almost to go beyond that, although Alfons knew it was physically impossible. He heard someone fall and looked down to see Peters having fallen to his knees. There was some murmuring.

"This is what happened last time." This was Peters, his voice shuddering with worry. "Before it spit him out again."

Edward was frozen to the spot, his eyes still covered, and Alfons was worried. He willed it to go away. Go away, go away, he begged in his head. It was causing an existential crisis, this monstrosity, and he felt himself on the edge of panic. He remembered the gun and faintly considered the possibility of using it, just to make something new happen and end this horror.

Then, the doors parted again, a small amount, and there was that creak that filled the room and drove terror into his heart, and Alfons waited for some bloody remains to be regurgitated on the floor. Still he kept the gun aimed at it, his hand beginning to shake. The doors opened wider, and a figure appeared...whole, moving, not chewed up and mangled. The figure stepped out of the gate, looked around, its eyes wide and surprised, wondering.

It was a boy, wearing a long red coat and with long, honey-colored hair in a familiar-looking ponytail, and he stepped from the gate looking perplexed. The gate swung shut behind him, and in a moment it had disappeared, swallowed by the earth, shaking the walls around them with a tremor that rocked the foundation and brought dust and bits of rock and brick showering down on them, then it stilled. The boy stood, then looked up and squinted as some dust fell into his eye. He wiped it away and looked around, then his eyes locked on the figure still kneeling on the floor.

He fell to his knees as well, and said nothing for quite some time.


End file.
